


Black and White Sunshine

by TiaLewise



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Smut, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Happy Ending, How Do I Tag, I got you boo!, I'm yet to find the other half of my whole idiot, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internalised Transphobia, Just in case you were worried there was no fluff or smut, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Long-Distance Relationship, Look all I knew I wanted was for there to be books and sex, M/M, Marijuana, Meet-Cute, Minor Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, My brain ran away with everything else, Neurodivergent Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scottish Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, Some Plot, Trans Male Crowley (Good Omens), Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Warlock Dowling Joins The Them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaLewise/pseuds/TiaLewise
Summary: "The cotton capital. The Second Summer of Love, the Haçienda. Irwell, Medlock, Irk and Mersey. Elizabeth Gaskell wrote her novels in a lovely little house. Oh. There’s so much to know…"Aziraphale East is, by his own account, a bit of an odd duck - and he's okay with that. He's always been happy in his own skin, in having been a confirmed bachelor his whole life.Everything changes on a work trip from London to Manchester, where he meets the vivacious and stunningly attractive Anthony Crowley. Like the splitting of the atom, Aziraphale is divided - and begins to wonder if it's not too late for love after all.Age, as they say, is but a number.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 194
Kudos: 146
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *voice from the back of the crowd:* "So hey Tia, when are you gonna finish All the Better Part of Me and write the sequel to How My Light is Spent?"  
> Me, crying and throwing pencils: "don't make me do stuff"
> 
> Hi, folks, I'm back!  
> I decided to write this fic because there's a line in the original Good Omens book where it says Crowley created Manchester, and that tickles me something wonderful. I grew up in a little town maybe 12 miles out of Manchester, but I've lived in the city itself since 2014. Crowley would definitely love it here - so in the fic, that's where he lives, while Aziraphale runs his bookshop in London. Fear not, they will eventually live together, but bruh you better be ready for some serious pining over the phone before that happens. 
> 
> Fic title from a song by Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds.

Aziraphale had never liked train stations. Always too busy, too loud, so much going on at once; it made him want to cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut tight, block the world out. Work was work, however, and those books in Manchester weren’t going to collect themselves. Anathema had introduced him to the delights of booking train tickets online well in advance, and now, after the calamity of running to and fro checking boarding times and platform numbers, they were settling down in a warm and quiet First Class carriage, curtains drawn against the outside world, and it was…

“Heaven.”

Anathema looked up from her phone. “Sorry, did you say something?”

Aziraphale smiled, letting out a long sigh as he laced his fingers together over his belly. He was a plush, soft gentleman of fifty-three years, with twinkling blue eyes, and hair that was once blonde and was now mostly white. “I said, this is heaven.”

Anathema grinned back. Though half Aziraphale’s age, she was undoubtedly more a close friend than a colleague, and she knew it keenly. “Thought you’d like it. So much faster, too. I took a coach to Manchester a few years back, and it took over five hours.” Aziraphale gave a sympathetic shudder and she nodded in agreement. “I mean, at least it was dirt cheap. Silver lining and all that.”

“Still. I dread to even imagine, my dear.”

Upon meeting Aaron Aziraphale East for the first time, many people were like to form the same three impressions: that he was as English as a rose, as intelligent as evolution, and as gay as a peacock speaking Polari. They would be correct in those impressions (though Aziraphale might argue that evolution, for all its successes, could also be shockingly stupid when it wanted to be). He was also a collector and restorer of rare and antiquarian literature, and had been since 1985, when his father had handed over the keys to the old family bookshop before tottering off to a happy retirement in the South Downs. Several years ago Anathema had swept onto the scene in a swirl of skirts and obsidian jewellery, with a book of prophecy, dated 1655, in her arms, and - to cut a long story short - they now ran  _ Celestia, _ an eclectic mix of bookshop, book club, cafe, and, occasionally, church group, of all things. It was just the right sort of hectic for Aziraphale’s busy brain, and he’d settled into it all like a new home. Having been accustomed to doing dealings with stuffy, rich folk, he hadn’t  _ quite _ expected the clientele of their joint venture to be mostly young folks in all delightful shades of LGBTQIA+; when he’d voiced this to Anathema she’d simply looked over the top of her glasses at him and said, 

“Aziraphale. You’re  _ literally _ the patron saint of the gays. What did you expect?”

And that had been that, apparently.

By the time the train passed Stoke-on-Trent, Aziraphale was almost vibrating with excitable energy. He fought the urge to tap his fingers on the tabletop, instead settling for a slight wriggle in his seat as he smoothed down the soft front of his waistcoat.  _ Manchester,  _ he thought.  _ The cotton capital. The Second Summer of Love, the Haçienda. Irwell, Medlock, Irk and Mersey. Elizabeth Gaskell wrote her novels in a lovely little house. Oh. There’s so much to  _ know…

“I can almost hear the cogs going round in your head, Aziraphale,” Anathema’s voice filtered through the fog. “What’re you thinking about?”

Aziraphale gave himself a little shake, blinking his suddenly rather dry eyes until they felt comfortable again. “Musing on our destination,” he replied with a smile. “I’ve never been, you see.”

Anathema suddenly looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Have you been living under a  _ rock _ all these years?”

“A pile of books would be more apt.”

Anathema dragged a hand over her face, knocking her round glasses askew. “I can’t believe this. Unbelievable.”

“Well, I hoped I might fit in a little sightseeing, before we meet with Ms Roberts to collect the books.”

“Yes!” Anathema straightened up, and fixed her glasses. “Fantastic idea.”

“Why do you think I requested we catch an earlier train, darling?”

“So you could stop for lunch somewhere?”

“Well, now. That’s a given, anywhere we go.”

Anathema looked at him fondly. “My favourite hedonist, you are.”

Back in London, Aziraphale had a lovely little team that helped to keep things running smoothly at  _ Celestia.  _ When all he really wanted to do was sit quietly, drink tea and read his books - read aloud to others at the very most - it helped to have others taking the strain off his very old and achy shoulders. 

There was Anathema, of course, his partner in crime, and  _ her _ partner, Newton, who was a tad shy and terrible with computers but could rival Aziraphale in a good theology debate. They were a sweet couple; Anathema brought out the confidence in Newton, and he seemed to keep her frantic need to  _ do  _ and  _ be  _ somewhat in check. 

Then there was Tracy, who had watched over Aziraphale as a baby and adored him like her own son. Now in her mid-sixties, she had arthritis in her knees and her glasses were thicker than ever, but she was always on the move, fluttering between counters and tables, making sure everyone was fed and watered and occupied. 

The twins, Adam and Warlock, handled the technology side of things, social media and such, and were the jacks-of-all-trades of the building and its many functions. Occasionally their friends came by to visit and ended up staying well after closing, to tell stories and swap tea and coffee for something a little, ahem,  _ stronger.  _ Nobody ever protested that particular turn of events. 

All in all, Aziraphale had good people to rely on and trust, and trust them he did. It had taken some time, yes, but the motley gang were as family to him now. Adam had even started learning about book restoration from Aziraphale, and it thrilled Aziraphale to no end; retention, preservation...his family’s life’s work, treasured skills and carefully honed crafts passed down to the newer generations.

By the time the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly Station, it was a little after midday. Aziraphale had twitched back the curtain fifteen minutes prior as they went through Stockport, and was unsurprised to see much the same activity on the stark grey platforms as he had at Euston. He nudged Anathema awake from her catnap and wriggled out of his seat to retrieve their modest luggage.

“Hotel first,” Anathema said, as they slipped their tickets through the automatic barriers and squeezed out into the main concourse. “We can drop our stuff off and then maybe go for a quick drink in the Village before we do anything else. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds a fine idea,” agreed Aziraphale, feeling a mite twitchy. The tannoy overhead echoed quite terribly and there was a constant rush of swishing coats and clacking boots on shiny floors. Aziraphale took a few deep breaths and shook himself. “Ooh, it  _ is  _ noisy here, isn’t it?”

“Welcome to Manchester, hon.” Anathema patted his arm and steered him gently towards the exit. “C’mon, then. Let’s give those sensitive ears of yours a reprieve.”

They'd booked a twin suite at an Ibis just down Portland Street, and thankfully it was very easy to reach from the train station, just a few minutes' walk away. They dropped off their luggage and took stock of their room; small, and painted in bright blues and whites, just as they'd seen on the booking website. Aziraphale brushed his hands over the bedclothes and was satisfied by their softness. For a quick overnight stay, they'd chosen well.

"So, you said something about a village?" he asked Anathema, who was sitting cross-legged on her bed, engrossed in her phone again.

"Yeah, it's not far," she said without looking up. "Not much is far when you're in the city centre, though."

"You've been on your phone a lot today. Is everything alright?"

She glanced up and smiled. "Yeah, of course. I've just been messaging a friend who lives here. Thought I might check in on him.”

"Is he local? Why not invite him along to the village with us? We've most of the day to ourselves, after all."

Her mouth fell into a surprised ‘o’. "You wouldn’t mind?"

"No, of course not. Just warn your friend of your rather stuffy company beforehand, hm?"

Anathema laughed at that. "I think he'd like you, actually. Okay, one sec…" She tapped out another message. Barely a minute later the phone buzzed in her hand, and she tapped away again with a chuckle. "He says he'll meet us there."

"Very good," said Aziraphale. Meeting new people could be overwhelming, but a friend of Anathema’s could be too bad, surely. He’d make the effort to engage and be pleasant, try not to withdraw - yes, it would be fine. He was in the right mood for it, he decided. “I’m going to have a quick freshen up before we go out, then,” he said, as he unzipped his suitcase and rummaged. “Do I need to change? How do my clothes look, darling?”

“Neat as a new pin,” Anathema replied, “and not a wrinkle in sight.”

“Fabulous.” Toiletry bag in hand, Aziraphale slipped into the bathroom. Once he’d brushed his teeth, tamed his hair (as much as it would ever allow), and tended to his skincare regimen, he felt a little more alert, more confident, and twenty minutes later he and Anathema set off out again into the brisk spring air. 

It wasn’t until they turned off just past a coach station, and saw the signage and the violent array of rainbow flags, that Aziraphale realised he had, in fact, been a bit of an idiot. He turned to Anathema with an apologetic smile. “And there was me thinking we were going somewhere suburban! I should have realised you meant  _ The  _ Village.”

“Where else?” she laughed. “Soft old bear like you, I couldn’t  _ not  _ take you down Canal Street while we were here.”

“I’m not hairy enough to be a bear,” Aziraphale protested weakly as Anathema grabbed his hand and pulled him down the cobbles.

“Oh, please, I’ve seen you with a week’s worth of beard, and I beg to differ. C’mon, we’re going to  _ Velvet.” _

Oh, she always had to have the last word, didn’t she? Aziraphale loved her immensely. 

Inside  _ Velvet,  _ it was opulent and ambient, lit with pretty lamps that glowed rather than blared, all soft black seats and dark walls with pops of colour in the cushions and roof beams. He could take or leave the music, though - he couldn’t figure out the appeal of all that modern bebop for the life of him. Given the time of day, only the bar staff appeared to be about, so music aside, it was quiet. He ordered a gin and tonic for Anathema, and a small glass of white wine for himself, and they went to sit in one of the corner seats. “It’s lovely in here,” he commented as he handed Anathema her glass.

“It is, isn’t it?” she replied. “It was always our starting point for pub crawls when I was in uni.” She took a sip of her drink and nodded. “Mm. That’s perfect. Thanks, Aziraphale.”

“You’re welcome.”

Twisting round, Anathema fished in her handbag and pulled out a slightly crumpled notepad, which she squinted down at over the top of her large, round glasses. “So, later. We’re meeting your client at eight o’clock tonight, at the hotel, yeah?” Aziraphale nodded his assent. “Great.” A pen appeared next from the depths of the bag. “We can check out pretty much anytime tomorrow morning, so that’s up to you, and the trains are hourly, so going back to London is, again, a case of whenever you’re ready. So you’ve got free reign over what you want to do. Sound good?”

“It does,” replied Aziraphale. “Oh, I am glad we travelled up for this. The postage costs for the books alone would have been twice as much as the train tickets.” He ran a finger round the rim of his wine glass and shivered pleasantly at the gentle humming noise it made. "Thank you for coming with me all this way."

"Don't mention it," Anathema replied, bumping her shoulder against his. "It's nice to be back in my old stomping ground for a bit.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond - but out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, a flash of burnt copper, and he instinctively turned his head at the same time that Anathema called out,

"Crowley! Over here!"

The tall man by the door pivoted, grinned, and sauntered over. The copper Aziraphale had noticed was his hair, a thick braid that fell past his shoulders. He was slender, dressed all in black, and he wore dark glasses atop a rather striking aquiline nose. He fit in rather perfectly with the bar's aesthetic, Aziraphale thought. A hot shiver rocked his stomach at the realisation that the man was exceptionally beautiful.

"Hey, guys. Ana! My favourite witch!" Crowley stopped by their table and a giggling Anathema got up to hug him tightly. They parted after a moment, Crowley bending to kiss her cheek. "You’re looking well; love your skirt. How many years has it been since I last saw you?”

"Four or so," Anathema replied. "Still screaming at your plants?"

"Someone's gotta!” There was a bit of Mancunian to his accent, lying underneath a lilting brogue that might have been Irish, or perhaps Scottish. It was nice to listen to.

He turned to Aziraphale then. Remembering himself, he stood up, and stuck out his hand in what he hoped was the right thing to do.  _ Don’t make an idiot of yourself, Aziraphale. _

Thankfully his flailing guess was right, and Crowley grasped his hand and shook it with a wide smile. "Y’alright, mate? I’m Anthony Crowley, he/him. Nice to meet ya.”

"A-Aziraphale East. Also he/him." Goodness, he had nice hands. 

Crowley withdrew, still smiling. "Just gonna grab a drink, yeah? Back in a tic." 

Off he went to the bar, hips swaying with each step - did hips normally do that? Was it normal to pay attention to a stranger's hips? Aziraphale sat back down in his seat and sipped at his wine, firmly avoiding Anathema's gaze while doing his best to stare a hole through the opposite wall.

Crowley returned presently with a half pint of a deep amber-coloured beer and a light froth already on his top lip. To Aziraphale's surprise, he dropped down next to him, instead of Anathema, and draped an arm over the back of the seat. "You said you're on work business, Ana? Still living it large in gay old Soho?"

"I am," Anathema said. "As a matter of fact, you're sitting right next to my boss."

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. "Am I, now?"

"Um. Yes," murmured Aziraphale. He watched the working of the man's throat as he swallowed a mouthful of beer, his own throat suddenly quite dry. "The bookshop has been in the family for a...a few generations now." He took a hurried gulp of wine and felt a rivulet spill from the side of his mouth. "And you, Anthony? What is your area of expertise?"

"Ah, well...bit of a plant mom, me." Crowley bent the arm draped over the seating and rested his head on a closed fist. His glasses slid down slightly, revealing long lashes and eyes of a startling golden brown.  _ Stop it, stop it, stop looking.  _ "I work in phytopathology - plant diseases and such."

"Goodness," Aziraphale breathed, "that sounds fascinating.”

“Eh. It’s alright, I guess, till you get sap in your hair.” 

“Where did you study?"

"Got my Bachelor's in sunny old Glasgow of ‘99. Came down here for my Master's, been here ever since."

Aziraphale brightened. "I  _ thought  _ I heard some Scots in your accent."

"Aye, lad. Patta’ li' tha' cannae really leave ye, nae matta where ye go.” Anathema spluttered with laughter into her Bombay Sapphire. "I’m from Paisley originally,” Crowley added, in his usual voice, “but Ma and Da were both dead English; they never had strong accents themselves. What I have, I probably picked up from kids at school. Oh...and you can just call me Crowley.” He nudged his glasses back up his nose with a knuckle. "Everyone else does."

The last statement made Aziraphale frown. “Is that what you prefer, or what you’re used to?”

“Eh?”

“Your name. Would you  _ prefer _ me to call you Crowley, or are you simply accustomed to it?”

“Oh.” Crowley suddenly broke into a wide smile. “I don’t think anybody’s ever asked me that.” He sipped his beer with a look on his face that might have been thoughtful, or wistful, or -  _ shut up and stop overthinking things - _

“Bit of both, probably,” Crowley continued. He tapped his painted fingernails on the side of his glass and pursed his lips over it. “Adds to my dashing and mysterious bravado though, don’t you think? Going by my surname?”

“You vain fucking peacock,” laughed Anathema. Aziraphale had almost forgotten she was there.

Crowley held up his hands. “Guilty as charged, good madam. Sentence thy charge to the gallows.”

Anathema wriggled out of her seat. “Maybe later. I need to use the restroom.” She slipped by them, sticking her tongue out at Crowley as she went. He responded with two fingers and a playful kick at her retreating backside. 

"Ah, she’s sound," Crowley said, once the last of her skirts had whipped round the corner. "Light of my fucking life, she is. Hey, uh, Aziraphale? Am I saying that right?” Aziraphale nodded to confirm that yes, he was, and it sounded so lovely in his bounding frolic of an accent and would he please continue speaking, “ - thanks, for. Y’know. Being cool with me coming along and gatecrashing your work trip.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, and he could have  _ sworn  _ he was going to reply with, “you’re welcome,” but he was feeling quite warm and fuzzy inside, and thoughts and feelings and speech starting mixing up all at once, so what came out instead was...

“You’re beautiful!”

Crowley stared at him like he’d grown a second head -

_ Oh. _

_ Bollocks. _

-and then  _ smiled. _

“Coming from you! Lighting up the place like a bloody angel.  _ You’re  _ beautiful.”

_ You utter idiot, putting him on the spot like that.  _ “I’m...I…” Aziraphale looked down at his knees. Soft, shapeless, uninteresting, like the rest of him. “I’m not. Not an angel. Or...anything like...I-I...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said…”

“Hey, hey. Whoa, now. Steady on, Aziraphale.” Crowley touched his shoulder. “None of that, you hear me? Stop apologising - I’m  _ flattered,  _ you nut. Who made you feel bad about yourself? Tell me and I’ll clobber ‘em. Give ‘em the old Glasgow Kiss.”

Aziraphale laughed, despite himself. “Old habits, my dear. I really didn’t mean to say anything, though. I just feel a bit silly.”

“Well, I’m glad you  _ did  _ say something,” Crowley said, shifting closer, “because I was thinking the same about you. Honestly.”

_ Goodness me…  _ Crowley was looking at him over the top of his glasses, with a gentle smile on his face and a bit of a blush high on his cheeks, and if Aziraphale had had more than one glass of wine he might have thrown caution to the wind and kissed him right there and then - but Anathema returned before he could berate himself further, settling back down in her seat and casting eyes between the two of them.

“So, Aziraphale, have you told Crowley this is your first time ever in Manchester?”

Crowley reared back like he’d been slapped. “You  _ what?!” _

“Er,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley railroaded over him soundly.

“I’m  _ offended.  _ How dare a cultured bloke like you never come see the capital of the North! My soul is crying for you.” To Anathema he said, “What’re your plans for the day?”

“Honestly? Sightseeing. We don’t need to be back at the hotel till eight.”

Crowley grabbed his beer and drained it in several loud gulps, then slammed the empty glass back down. “Finish up, youse. I’m leading this tour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://tia-lewise.tumblr.com/) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/tia.amane) ! I'm always up for a chat.
> 
>   
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
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>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
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	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased you all enjoyed the opening chapter! Comments and love gives me life, even if I do flail about a bit and protest. Not good at taking compliments, me.
> 
> Please note the added tag for internalised transphobia, which is briefly mentioned, along with gendered language for genitals, within this chapter and is probably as angsty as this fic will get.

"He's so fucking _adorable,"_ Crowley whisper-whined in Anathema's ear. "I wanna take him home with me."

"At least buy him dinner first, jeez," Anathema whispered back.

"Not like that - well, maybe like that - he's just. Look at him. He's so cute!"

They were in Chinatown, watching Aziraphale as he admired the phoenix-and-dragon decorated _paifang_ with wide eyes and a benevolent smile on his face. Crowley's stomach was squirming just looking at him.

"Ana."

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna level with you here." 

"Oh, god."

"Your boss is fit as fuck and I literally want him to snap me in half."

"Thanks for that delightful image. I'd like to claw my eyes out now."

Crowley threw his head back and cackled. The raucous laughter drew Aziraphale's attention, the man turning round and gazing over with apple-bright cheeks and a sweet smile. Crowley mock-saluted him and he responded with a little wave, fingers wiggling. The squirming in his stomach ratcheted up a notch. 

Aziraphale ambled over, having apparently had his fill of Chinatown, and Anathema suggested Saint Peter's Square as their next stop. "But," she warned Aziraphale, "you have to promise me you won't camp out in the library for the next week."

"Oh, that might be a promise I can't keep," replied Aziraphale, cheeks pink and plump and lovely as he smiled.

The library itself was closed for the day, but Aziraphale appeared unfazed, such was his enthusiastic gushing about the exterior architecture. He used words like _rotunda_ and _portico_ and _colonnade,_ none of which made any sense to Crowley, but he could nonetheless feel every ounce of love and admiration coming off Aziraphale in waves as he scampered round the building like an excited child. 

"This area was the site of Peterloo, wasn't it?" he eventually said, looking out at the tram stop bisecting the square. "The Cenotaph is here, too. Goodness. Such rich history, all in one place. I feel privileged to stand amongst it all."

"I read that they’re putting up a statue of Emmeline Pankhurst here, sometime this year," Anathema said.

"And rightly so," Aziraphale said stoutly. 

"Her house is down the way, right by the hospital," Crowley chipped in, unable to resist. 

"Oh, I should love to see that someday."

"I'll take you," Crowley said, all in a rush. "Today. Tomorrow. Whenever."

Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a look that made him want to either blush or cry. Perhaps both. At the same time. "That's very kind of you, my dear." 

Yep, there was the blush. "'M _not_ kind. Shuddup."

"Yes, yes, you're an evil little demon," sighed Anathema, whose own look was more of exasperation. She looped her arm through Aziraphale's and squeezed him. "Shall we move on? Say, Deansgate?"

So off to Deansgate they went, stopping by Castlefield on the way. According to a tourist site Crowley pulled up on his phone, there was an old Roman fort down there, which looked interesting. When they arrived, bless his heart, Aziraphale whipped out his own phone and began snapping pictures of the ruins, awe written all over his countenance. 

Said countenance, though, on seeing the Beetham Tower, though, was an absolute picture of hilarity. "What the _bloody hell_ is that monstrosity?" Aziraphale hissed, as they stood and stared up at its lofty heights. He actually looked offended at the skyscraper's very existence. "It looks like a...a...like a gigantic microchip," he went on. "Hardly in keeping with the surrounding structures."

"Awful, isn't it," Crowley lamented. "Don't even get me _started_ on the noise it makes when it's windy."

"You don't live up there, do you?"

"God, no. I'm a flash bastard, but I'm not _that_ flash. Or that rich."

Their conversation was broken by a shrill ringing. Aziraphale jumped, patted his pockets, then withdrew his phone and frowned at it. "Excuse me, I need to take this," he murmured, already walking a few paces away.

Crowley saw the perfect moment to take a smoke break. He signalled to Anathema and stepped back before fishing in his satchel for his vape. As he lifted it to his lips, Anathema quirked a brow. "You quit."

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Expensive habit." He blew out a cloud of apple-scented vapour. "Does this make me look cool?"

"I am not going to dignify your fishing with a response."

"You're no fun.”

“And you’re old. You’re not allowed to be cool.”

Crowley swatted at her. “Cow. Fifty is the new twenty.”

“Aren’t you fifty-one?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Crowley put on his best disgruntled voice, but he couldn’t help smiling as he took another pull on his vape. He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was pacing back and forth with a frown between his brows, still on his phone. Against the dull mid-afternoon bustle of the city, Aziraphale stood out like the brightest, most beautiful of beacons. Crowley had never become so quickly attracted to anyone before now, and it was baffling, to say the least - but he was determined to find out what it was that made Aziraphale so damn desirable.

Presently Aziraphale put away his phone, and came back over, looking fretful. “There’s been a bit of a to-do,” he said to Anathema.

“What happened?”

“It was Ms Roberts on the phone. There’s been, um. A burst pipe at her house. Water everywhere.” Aziraphale began wringing his hands. “There are repair people coming over, but she can’t leave the house for the time being, so there’s...well, there’s no way she can bring the books to us.”

Anathema made a face. “Ah, damn. That’s rough. Can we go to her?”

“Yes, I’m sure we can, it’s just...ooh, you know how I hate when plans are disrupted.” The wringing became a momentary flapping before Aziraphale stuffed his hands firmly behind his back. Crowley, silently observing, noted the movements with interest. “She gave me her address. Do you know where...East Didsbury is, darling? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’ve never been,” Anathema replied, “but it’s a few miles south of here, I think? Crowley, do you know if there’s still a tram that goes that way?”

“Uh, yeah, pretty sure it still does,” said Crowley, scratching his head. “Could give you a lift, though. If you wanted. Be no trouble.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, my dear. I couldn’t impose like that.”

“I don’t mind. Really.”

“You don’t have to do all this - you barely know me -”

“Shush now, angel,” Crowley said firmly, and Aziraphale clamped his lips shut, though his anxious energy still came off him in waves. “We’ve had a drink together, so we’re friends - and friends help each other out. Lemme finish off your tour with a not-so-scenic drive, eh?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were downcast, but he giggled lightly. “You’re ridiculous. Alright, then.”

“Are you okay to drive?” Anathema frowned.

“On half a pint?” Crowley tossed his hair back. “Bitch, please.”

“Fine, but please tell me you don’t still have that god-awful car.”

Well, _somebody_ just lost their shotgun privileges.

* * *

In hindsight, perhaps Anathema being in the front would have been better. She, at least, was used to Crowley’s driving.

Aziraphale was decidedly _not._

“Watch out for that pedestrian!” he yelped over the stereo’s soulful warbling of Freddie Mercury, as Crowley zipped, lead-footed and joyful, onto the A34.

“She’s on the street, she knows the risks she’s taking -”

“Watch the road! _Watch the road!_ Crowley _you_ _can’t do sixty miles an hour_ in a forty zone!”

“Why not?”

“You’ll get us killed!”

“Nahhh, be reet -”

“No, no, no, don’t you _dare_ run that red light - _how in the fucking hell did you ever pass your driving test?!”_

Anathema, from the back seat, looked very smug. Crowley glared at her through the rearview mirror, and reluctantly slowed down the Bentley - and she was _not_ god-awful, thank you very much, she was beautiful and magnificent, Anathema just had no taste - until they reached their destination.

Whilst Anathema and Aziraphale filed into their client’s house - Aziraphale still adorably white-faced from the drive - Crowley killed the engine and left the music playing while he waited in the car. He rolled down the window and dug out his vape for a quick calm of nicotine, blowing the apple mist out into the spring air as he arrived at a shattering thought.

_I really like him._

He sighed. A stupid crush, that’s all it was, all it could ever be. It didn’t matter if Aziraphale thought he was beautiful; lots of people did. Crowley didn’t think himself an arrogant bloke, but he knew what he looked like, the kind of person he usually attracted attention from, and Aziraphale was clearly as gay as a mincing rainbow, but...

 _Soon as he finds out what’s in your pants he’ll bolt, same as anyone else in their right mind would. Just drop it, you fucking idiot._ He put away his vape, scowled, and turned Freddie up to eleven. 

It was fine. Tomorrow Aziraphale was heading back to London, and Crowley would likely never see him again. He’d shout at his plants, bury himself in his work, wear out the batteries in his vibrator...yeah, it was fine.

So when Aziraphale and Anathema got back in the car, slightly damp but hauling a stack of old books and smiles to rival the sun, Crowley smiled back, revved up the old girl’s engine, and gunned it back to the city, without a word said about it.

* * *

Later.

He’d dropped them off near the hotel - couldn’t drive down half of Portland Street anymore unless you were a bus - and wished them good luck and a safe trip back. Anathema had hugged him, kissed his cheek, and promised to be in touch soon, while Aziraphale had fluttered those stupid soft fingers of his and smiled and said _how wonderful it was to meet you, my dear, mind how you go, and thanks ever so much for everything today…_

Crowley cleaned his flat from top to bottom, reorganised his wardrobe, and debated for the thousandth time whether he ought to take half of it to the charity shop, before confining himself to the kitchen and deciding on lamb curry for tea. He wasn't the best of cooks, not by a long shot, but he enjoyed the process, the careful measuring, stirring, letting the flat fill with rich and delicious aromas; it was soothing, methodical, and helped to calm his jittering nerves.

 _Just a crush,_ he repeated to himself, busily chopping and dicing. _Just a silly crush,_ as he blended onions, chilli, ginger, and garlic together. _You're too old for this shit,_ as he marinated his lamb.

His phone went off as he was toasting the whole spices; he frowned at the counter, wiped his hands on a tea towel, and went to check his messages.

Crowley stared at his phone, wide-eyed without his glasses to hide behind. Of all the things Anathema could have messaged him about, this was probably the last one he'd expected. In all honesty, he'd been surprised that Aziraphale even _owned_ a phone, adorably old-fashioned as he was.

 _And he wants my - he wants - oh, god - shit!_ The spices were burning. Crowley swore under his breath as he grabbed the pan off the heat and looked at the damage. It was salvageable, luckily. He released a long breath, added the onion paste to the pan, and stirred it all together before replying.

Nervous. That was definitely the image of Aziraphale. The sweet thing had flapped and wriggled and twitched his way through the day, and damn if it wasn't endearing as all hell. Crowley stirred the pan mixture and turned the heat down slightly. He could just picture Aziraphale now, pacing around his hotel room, wringing his hands and muttering posh little epithets to himself. God, he was cute. And hot. Crowley found his own fingers fluttering as he reached again for his phone.

Didn't she know his full name was Anthony J-for-Just-Pining-Like-a-Loon Crowley? Anxiety was well and truly settling in the pit of his stomach now. Hands trembling, he chucked passata, powdered spices, and the lamb into the pan, then shoved the whole lot into the oven and set to pacing a hole in the grubby kitchen lino.

Oh, she did not _know_ what kinds of people someone like Crowley needed to be scared of. Loved allies, did Crowley, but their support and his experience (in his experience) only went so far hand-in-hand...

Anathema, judging by her follow-up reply, was fairly nonplussed and completely unimpressed with the virtual yelling.

_Doesn’t look good on anyone, love, but thanks for pointing it out._

Booze, that'd do the trick. He needed a stiff drink, and then perhaps his nerves would knit themselves back together and tell him to stop being a whiny piece of shit. Crowley went off in search of the vodka he'd seen somewhere in his bedroom, and after a few minutes of hunting high and low, found it under his bed, speckled with dust bunnies, and no wonder - it burned his throat when he took a gulp, testament to it being cheap and nasty. 

He gave it half an hour, and a few more swigs, before replying again.

The curry, when it came out of the oven, was a success. How things would go with Aziraphale, now he had Crowley's number, was anyone's guess. He switched the vodka for rioja, and barely tasted the meal as it passed his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hated this chapter more and more as I wrote it. Whatever. It's here now, do with it what you will.
> 
> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://tia-lewise.tumblr.com/) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/tia.amane) ! I'm always up for a chat.
> 
>   
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. There's a bit more angst - it just happened as I was writing it, so I guess it was needed.
> 
> cw: talk of traumatic past, self-deprecating language, including Crowley calling himself "tranny" on one occasion. **Please** take care if this is something you might be sensitive to.

Aziraphale stood in the darkened foyer of the hotel, phone in hand, gazing out at the nighttime traffic of Manchester.

The day had been lovely, absolutely perfect - Ms Roberts' burst pipe aside. She'd been ever so embarrassed about the whole thing, pottering about between workmen and her hastily collected valuables, put out of reach of the water intent on ruining her carpets. The books, thankfully, had been upstairs, out of harm's way, and Aziraphale now had six of them in his possession, ready for a healthy dose of love, care, and perhaps a touch of glue. 

The trip's purpose had been fulfilled. He should have been satisfied.

But he couldn't stop thinking about Crowley. Vibrant, funny, beautiful Crowley. There was so much Aziraphale didn’t know about him, and it was itching under his skin with the need to indulge. People usually confused Aziraphale, but he’d felt that connection, recognised a mutual attraction…

He shook his head and scoffed. He was too old to be acting like this.

Still…

The phone was still in his hand. He looked at it and felt the wayward pull of his traitorous heart in that one simple motion, before steeling himself, fingers of his free hand flexing.

“You asked for his number, Aziraphale,” he said to himself. “It’s only logical that you make use of that.”

So he dialled.

And waited.

One ring.

Two.

A taxi honked loudly outside on the third, startling him.

Four.

Five.

On the sixth -

_“...H-Hello?”_

Aziraphale smiled, despite his nerves. “Hello, Crowley.”

_“Aziraphale. Hi.”_

There was a long silence.

“I, um. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Crowley made a soft noise, perhaps a laugh. _“Should I consider myself lucky?”_

“I wouldn’t go that far. I may still make a complete mess of things.”

_“Well, I think you’re doing very well so far.”_

“Thank you, dear.” He paused as a man and woman entered the foyer, making for the exit. “Listen. I, ah...I feel as though I left you on an ellipsis.”

_“Come again?”_

“I’m making no sense. Of course. Silly of me.” Aziraphale shrugged his shoulders, shook his head rapidly. “An ellipsis is -”

_“I know what an ellipsis is, Aziraphale.”_

“Um. Yes. Again...being silly...”

_“I’m gathering that you want to talk more.”_

“I do. And I rather feel as though I’ve left it far too late…”

 _“Nah,”_ Crowley replied. There was a gentle clink of glass on his end. _“Night’s just beginning for some.”_

Aziraphale cleared his throat and willed his stupid limbs to stop feeling the need to jump about. “Can we...meet in person? Over the phone, it’s so...impersonal. I don’t like it.”

Another silence, shorter this time.

_“You could come to my place. If you like. There’s some stuff I wanna talk to you about, too.”_

Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat. “O-Oh. Really?”

_“Mm. ‘Fraid I’ve had a few glasses of wine, though, angel. Not exactly driving material.”_

“I’ll take a taxi,” he exclaimed, “a bus, whatever gets me there - lords above, I can’t believe I’m doing this, but...I want to see you, Crowley.”

 _“I want to see you, too,”_ Crowley replied, voice soft.

“Can you send me your address?”

_“Yeah, I’ll text it to you.”_

“Thank you. I-I’ll be...I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

 _“A jiffy. God, that’s brilliant. Literally nobody says that anymore,”_ Crowley chuckled. _“I’ll see you soon, angel. And...thanks. For calling.”_

“It was my pleasure, dear.”

The call ended, and a few seconds later buzzed with a text message bearing an address.

Okay.

This was happening.

There was a taxi app on his phone, which he was familiar enough with from using it around London. He hurriedly inputted the given address, not even sparing a glance at the distance, and confirmed a driver was a few short minutes away. The phone was pocketed, a deep breath blown out, then Aziraphale made like wildfire for the lift. 

He burst into their hotel room, flushed and panting, thoroughly startling a pyjama-clad Anathema in the process of applying her night cream.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you know anything about Ancoats?”

Her face, scrubbed clean and pink, split into a disbelieving smile. “Oh, Aziraphale. I knew you had it in you!”

“Is it far from here?”

“No, it’s walking distance really, but I’d take a taxi if I were - ”

“Yes, yes, I’m doing just that!” Aziraphale grabbed his coat from his bed and shrugged it on. “Are you sure this is okay?” he asked, whirling again to face her.

“Why wouldn’t it be? You’ve all day tomorrow to get the train back to London.”

“Good, good. So there’s no need to rush…” His phone buzzed in his pocket, signalling the arrival of the taxi. “Oh! I have to go!” Looking around wildly, he grabbed his suitcase, then headed for the door, sparing one more glance back. “Um...don’t wait up?”

Anathema laughed joyously at his retreating behind. “Go get ‘im, tiger!”

* * *

The taxi ride was quick, uneventful, and blessedly quiet. Aziraphale’s head was abuzz with wild thought, of disbelief at his own impulsive actions. Goodness, he’d never even _courted_ a man before, not in all his many years - and yet here he was, rushing to the home of someone he’d known for all of a few scant hours, like a blushing, lovesick fool. He was mad, surely, or at least heading that way. 

_Oh, I do hope I’m doing the right thing._

“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling over in front of an old red-brick cotton mill. 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale handed over a ten pound note. “Keep the change, good fellow, and do have a nice night.”

“Cheers, and same to you, mate. See you later.”

Aziraphale was left standing on the pavement, frowning up at the building before him. This was definitely the place, he trusted his driver implicitly. But how did one get in? 

Feeling rather lost, he called Crowley again.

 _“Hey.”_ He’d picked up almost straight away this time. _“Everything alright?”_

“Yes. Well, no. I’m here. Just can’t figure out how to get in.”

_“What street did you come in on?”_

“Oh, um, Cotton Street, I believe?”

_“Yeah, you’re in the right place. Right, I’d need to buzz you in anyway, so I’ll come down and get you - stay there a sec.”_

Aziraphale pocketed his phone and clasped his hands behind his back, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He surely looked out of place. This was a hip and trendy area, renovated buildings and rich history, and here he was in his bow tie and sweater vest, looking like somebody’s grandfather...well, hopefully he wouldn’t be waiting too long.

He wasn’t. A door opened a little way down the street and an auburn-topped head poked out from around it. A rush of relief flooded through Aziraphale as he grabbed his suitcase and hurried over. “Thank you so much,” he said. “I might have been out there all night otherwise.”

“So dramatic,” Crowley replied with a laugh. His hair was out of its earlier braid, spilling over his shoulders to his mid-back in loose curls, and he had on an oversized black hoodie and pyjama trousers decorated with cartoon toadstools, flowers and stars that Aziraphale vaguely recognised but couldn’t place. 

“Come on up, then.” Crowley turned on his heel and gestured for Aziraphale to follow. He was also barefoot, which struck Aziraphale as slightly ridiculous and completely adorable. “I’m on the third floor.”

The flat that Crowley led him up to was spacious and well-lit, with a gorgeous view of the canal below and the city beyond. There were a few dark rugs scattered here and there, but for the most part it was bare hardwood flooring. The minimalist aesthetic rather suited Crowley, he thought. 

He sniffed at the air. “Indian spices?”

“Yeah,” Crowley replied, unzipping his hoodie, “I made curry earlier. Sorry. Smell tends to linger.”

“Oh, no. I think it smells delicious.”

“Oh, that’s good then, I s’pose.” The hoodie was shrugged off and slung onto a nearby chair. 

Aziraphale’s mouth nearly dropped open. 

_Oh, my._

Crowley was wearing a loose black vest, all wiry arms and subtle muscles on display - and the tattoos; so _many_ of them...vines and flowers and leaves in riots of colour winding up his arms and across his shoulders, dipping below his left collarbone to disappear underneath the neckline of the vest. Spiralled around his left bicep was a glittering black serpent with blazing yellow eyes, its head resting on a bright red apple just above the crook of his elbow. Whoever had done the tattooing must have been a very talented individual indeed.

“Aziraphale?”

He shook himself. “Apologies, my dear. Just admiring your artwork.”

“Oh, these old things?” Crowley winked. “Just something I threw on one day.”

“Jolly expensive thing to just throw on.”

“What can I say? I’m a man of impulse. C’mon, come sit down - d’you want a drink? I’ve got a rioja opened.”

“That sounds lovely. Sofa?”

“Knock yourself out.”

 _I’d rather not._ Aziraphale delicately toed off his shoes, grateful that he’d chosen socks without any stray holes, and hung up his coat before sitting himself primly on the slate grey sofa.

Crowley went off into the kitchen, hips swinging like sexy pendulums, and returned with a glass of red, which he handed to Aziraphale. He had a glass of water in his other hand, which he sipped at as he sat down on Aziraphale’s left, leaving a seat’s worth of space between them. 

He tucked his bare feet up underneath him and leaned his head on his free hand, elbow over the back of the sofa. “I’m really glad you called,” he said. “I mean - I was scared shitless, I won’t lie. But I’m glad all the same.”

“Scared. Yes. That certainly makes two of us.” Aziraphale sipped his wine and made a pleased noise. “Oh, this is delicious. What is it?”

“Just a Campo Viejo.”

“Well, it’s _very_ good.” Crowley smiled shyly and looked away, a red flush creeping over his cheeks. The dark glasses were gone, Aziraphale noted, a set of clear lenses in their place, leaving Crowley’s darting, dashing eyes and little nose freckles in plain sight. He was truly breathtaking, a work of art right here in front of him. 

There was a small wooden table in front of the sofa with a few dark coasters on it; Aziraphale put his wine down on one, then turned to face Crowley. His creaky knees wouldn’t ever permit a tucked-up and casual position such as Crowley’s, but he crossed one leg over the other, and that felt comfortable enough for him. “Firstly,” he said, and Crowley’s gaze flickered back to him, “I must apologise again for my silly outburst, back at the pub. I’m afraid my mouth and my brain don’t always work together at the right time.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Silly’s definitely what you are. I told you I was flattered, angel.”

“Oh, goodness. I’m messing this up already…”

“No, you’re not. Go on.” 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to blush. “I don’t know how to say any of this without feeling like an utter fool.”

“You’re doing fine, angel.”

There it was again; that name. “Why do you call me that?”

Crowley took a gulp of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “‘Cause you look like one,” he said, as though it were obvious. “Your hair’s like a halo.”

“I-I don’t…”

“I can stop if you don’t like it.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s not that. I’ve never had a...a pet name before.”

“Really? Not even from a partner?”

The blush deepened. “I’ve actually...never been in any sort of relationship.”

“Fuck right off!” Crowley’s eyebrows practically reached his hairline. “You’re serious?”

“Oh, yes -” The wine on the table was half-drained in one gulp, “- and I’ve been very happy and content as a bachelor. My younger years certainly had their fair share of, ah, _action_ here and there, but once I acquired the bookshop, my life went solely into my work.” Aziraphale’s hands were trembling slightly, the remaining wine in his glass rippling; he set it down again. “So here I am, an inexperienced, boring dullard of a man, running across a city I don’t know, to find you, a man I _barely_ know, because I needed to tell you that...that…”

Crowley leaned forward, eyes wide. “Yeah?”

_Let the mouth run in front of the brain. Don’t think. Just say it._

“...That I really do fancy you quite a lot and I think you feel the same about me!”

He couldn’t look. Wouldn’t. Aziraphale clamped his lips together tightly and stared at his clasped hands on his knee, and willed himself to stop shaking. He’d done it, he’d said it. He’d done what he came here to do. But now...what? 

Crowley made a light humming noise, almost a smile, if a smile could be made from noise alone. When Aziraphale glanced over, Crowley was finishing off his water, then placing the empty glass on the table. Goodness, even his _eyes_ were smiling. “You’d be right,” he said. “I wasn’t lying when I said you’re beautiful. I think you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, angel. If I fancied you any more than I already do, I’d probably explode.”

The smile dropped, then; Aziraphale put a hand to his mouth in sudden alarm. “But…you need to know something,” said Crowley, low and melancholy. “About me.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, “I’m sure it can’t be all that bad.”

“It has been...for some people I’ve liked.”

“Unless you’re an axe murderer, or a Catholic, I doubt my opinion of you will change.” 

The light joke worked, bringing a gentle smile back to Crowley’s lovely face. “Nah. Church of England.”

“That’s alright, then.”

“Not practicing, by the way. Just raised like that.”

“I was, too. Now, you’d best tell me what has you so twisted up.”

Crowley crossed his wonderfully inked arms, hands rubbing up and down his biceps anxiously. “So, I’m transgender.” He looked at Aziraphale like a frightened rabbit, but all Aziraphale did was re-cross his legs and nod. It wasn’t exactly a shocking revelation in the current day and age, after all. Exhaling shakily, Crowley carried on, “I was raised as a girl, but always felt something was off about me. Didn’t fit in, didn’t feel like the other girls at school. Puberty was a bitch. Cried for hours when I realised I was growing tits. While they were all getting into makeup and pretty dresses and fantasising about boys, I was hiding under loose tops and begging Ma to let me cut my hair short. She told me no, that good Christian girls didn’t walk around looking like dykes. So I kept my mouth shut after that, finished school, and moved out at sixteen to Glasgow, never went back home.” 

Their eyes met, and a pang of sorrow held Aziraphale’s heart tight to see Crowley’s beautiful eyes filling with tears. “I’ve been in a few relationships, but they never lasted that long. I’d be hidden away from my partner’s social circle, their family...they didn’t want anyone to know their partner was a tranny. Others thought they couldn’t call themselves gay if they enjoyed a bloke’s pussy.” 

A single tear rolled down Crowley’s cheek. “I’ve been single for about ten years now. I gave up looking for someone who could accept me as I am, and not be ashamed of me or themselves for being with me. Apparently it’s just...not in the cards for me, y’know?” 

Off came the glasses, and he rubbed his eyes, shoulders shaking, as he let out a quiet sob. “So if you decide now that you don’t want this, angel...I’ll understand.”

Aziraphale could not understand. A font of anger was building inside of him, anger at the hurt dealt to this poor man. He went to retrieve a pack of tissues from his luggage, handing them to Crowley and sitting down again a little closer to him. “Your past partners were despicable,” he said, as Crowley dabbed at his eyes, “and they should rightly be ashamed of themselves. Not for who you are, but for how they treated you. You didn’t deserve any of it, my dear.”

“You’re not...grossed out or anything?” Crowley blew his nose with a sound like an elephant trumpeting.

“Many who frequent my bookshop are transgender, darling. I’m quite familiar with the area as a whole.”

Crowley gave him a watery smile, the damp tissue falling forgotten into his lap. “You’ve got no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” His fingers fluttered a moment, then he held his hand out shyly, and Aziraphale took it without hesitation, thumb stroking over his knuckles. “Bound to be a bit different if it’s someone you fancy, though, right?”

“I must confess I’ve never been intimate with your particular sort of kit before,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley spluttered with laughter at the terminology, “but as they say, I’m willing to learn.”

“So eloquent,” murmured Crowley. “You’re sweet.” 

A rush of bravery had Aziraphale lifting his free hand, fingers gently sweeping Crowley’s flushed, damp cheek to tuck some hair behind his ear. It was just as soft as he imagined it would be, sliding like gossamer against his skin. Crowley jumped a little at the contact, eyes locked onto Aziraphale’s, his breathing picking up a notch. Aziraphale held his gaze; eye contact was something he didn’t usually like, but Crowley’s eyes were so expressive, so lovely, so full of wonder and affection, he didn’t think he could have looked away if he tried. 

“My dear...if you’re not opposed, I think I should like to kiss you now.”

Crowley closed his eyes and sighed, already leaning in. “Oh, god. Please do.”

So he did.

Crowley’s lips were warm and soft, the barest hint of stubble prickling Aziraphale’s cheek in a tantalising contrast. His own eyes fluttered shut as he felt Crowley shift even closer, and he parted his lips slightly, the kiss deepening. It was gentle and unhurried, an indulgence in tactility, and when they broke apart a few short seconds later, Aziraphale came away wondering how he’d ever gone so long without such sensation in his life. 

“Wow.” Crowley smiled, dipping his head to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “That was...really nice.” Aziraphale hummed in assent, busy as he was with stroking Crowley’s luscious curls, savouring their soothing texture as they slipped between his fingers. Crowley nuzzled him, lips curving into a smile at the base of Aziraphale’s throat that he could clearly feel. “D’you wanna spend the night, angel? No expectations, ‘m not asking for sex or anything, I just...don’t really wanna let you go just yet.”

“The feeling is mutual, but I wouldn’t want to be in the way. Do you have work in the morning?”

“No, I’m on annual leave till next week.”

“Then yes. I think I will stay. Thank you for the offer.”

“Fucking brilliant.” Crowley pecked his jaw, his lips, then drew back. “What say we crack open another bottle?”

“You’ll hear no complaints from me, darling.”

The night, Aziraphale surmised, was going strong, and would only get better. As Crowley slid off the sofa and sauntered through to the kitchen, he couldn’t help doing a little wiggle of victory in his seat. 

_Well done, old chap!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://tia-lewise.tumblr.com/) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/tia.amane) ! I'm always up for a chat.
> 
>   
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
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	4. Chapter 4

It might have been the alcohol, it might have been that he was simply more relaxed now - but Aziraphale, it was turning out, was a right old bastard when he wanted to be, and Crowley was abso-fucking-lutely _living_ for it.

“So then!” Aziraphale exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his wine glass, and it was a wonder that nothing spilled onto his perfectly pressed beige trousers, “so then in comes this short little man. He’s polite enough, he gets a coffee and goes to sit down. Newt, bless him, he hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but Tracy comes running for me and she says, she says…” He cleared his throat, then put on a soft, breathy sort of falsetto that had Crowley snorting into his own wine,

_ “Aziraphale, my little peach, there’s a  _ Nazi  _ in here!” _

Crowley surged upright. “You fucking what?!”

“Oh, yes! A tattoo gave him away. An iron cross on his hand.”

“So what didya do?”

Aziraphale suddenly grinned, and it looked downright evil and it was everything Crowley could have wanted in that moment. “I went over to his table, and sat down opposite him.”

“Yeah?”

“And then I just stared at him, in silence.”

“What happened?”

“He became uncomfortable, and demanded to know if I was hitting on him. I believe a few choice words were used to describe me. Water off a duck’s back to me, really. I just kept on staring at him till he was shouting and kicking up a real fuss, making an absolute arse of himself in front of everybody.” Looking as smug as anyone can be whilst off their tits on the vino, Aziraphale slurped at his wine and smacked his lips loudly. “Warlock and Adam had been watching the whole thing like - like - like those...those birds that circle…”

“Vultures?”

“Hawks! - and then over they came, standing either side of this ridiculous fellow - and the twins, they’ve grown  _ very  _ tall these last few years, they’re both at least six feet now, bless them - glaring down at him while I carry on sitting and staring. Oh, it was  _ liberating,  _ I’ll tell you that for free. And  _ finally  _ I say to him, I say, “your sort aren’t welcome here. Please leave immediately,” and the twins flanked him all the way to the door and slammed it - slammed it behind him!” Aziraphale dissolved into helpless laughter, rocking back and forth on the sofa and beating his knee with his free hand. Crowley was laughing too, utterly entranced by the beautiful creature in his home, exuding such mirth, such inherent chaotic goodness. He could have fed off his energy and never be sated.

“Did you ever see him again?” Crowley topped up their glasses. 

“No, but would you believe he then had the audacity to post a review online, claiming discrimination!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not! Here, hold my glass a moment.” Aziraphale produced his phone and held it right up to his face as he tapped at the screen. “Should be here...I keep it saved like a memento...ah, here we go.” 

Crowley shuffled closer to read it, putting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. A kiss was dropped to the top of his head, deepening the warm, fuzzy glow in his chest.

_"_ _Only went in 4 a drink an the owner starts harrasing me, said i werent welcome there an i needed to go. Had me marched out!!! A paying customer! B warned ppl this place WILL discriminate against u!!"_

“...Jesus, I think I just had a stroke reading that.”

“Read the reply, read the reply!” Aziraphale giggled.

He scrolled down a little. 

_"Thank you for taking the time to write an informative and constructive review. I would like to remind you, sir, of the homophobic language you shouted - repeatedly, I might add - in an establishment that is openly and unashamedly welcoming of the LGBT+ community; It would not be amiss to assume that everybody in the building heard the phrases, “faggot,” “fairy,” and “fudge-packing arse bandit” directed towards myself. As the holder of a Masters in English Literature, I must commend the eloquence of your tirade. Your calling as a poet should not be ignored, good fellow._

_I also couldn’t help but notice the Nazi imagery tattooed on your right hand. Very well-drawn linework, shame about the message it sends. I would be happy to recommend a reputable clinic that performs laser removal therapy, but I hear the smell of heated flesh is rather arousing for those who sympathise with eugenics and ethnoreligious genocide. Perhaps have it covered with an England flag, or something equally gauche yet harmless._

_PS: I’ll have you know that faggots can be quite delicious. Perhaps you might be open to trying one sometime. Have a nice day!"_

Crowley's eyes were wet from heaving laughter, tears running down his cheeks as he handed back the wine glass, the phone tucked back away safely. "Amazing. That's fucking amazing. You've quite the bastard in you, angel."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," said Aziraphale, grinning widely.

He looked so proud and drunk and beautiful, sitting there on Crowley's boring old couch, that Crowley, poor, besotted Crowley, couldn't help but kiss those plump, delicious, wine-stained lips. Aziraphale responded with a soft, pleased hum and drew him in closer with his free hand, thumb slipping under Crowley's vest to stroke the bare skin of his waist. 

"Any other "bastard angel" moments to share?" Crowley asked, once they had the brains to quit snogging for five whole seconds. 

Aziraphale made a thoughtful face, all pursed lips and crinkling brow. Then he brightened, opened his mouth to speak, and was promptly interrupted by the loud gurgling of his stomach.

Crowley nearly fell off the couch laughing.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale pouted a few minutes later, once Crowley had plied him with leftover curry, and another glass of wine, “must’ve gotten all excited earlier and forgot to eat. It does happen sometimes, when I get lost in a good book - oh, this is  _ scrumptious,  _ darling! - but, well, given the size of me...." He shrugged and took a small sip of wine. "I could stand to watch my portion sizes, but I'm really too old to care these days."

"I like the size of you," Crowley said. 

"Really?"

"Yeah. Soft, an'...an' I reckon you suit bein' bigger." It was hard to form words when drunk, and even harder when every forkful of curry that slipped past Aziraphale's lips culminated in a moan so indecent that Crowley's guts were making macramé of themselves. 

“Well, thank you, dear.” Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth. “I’ve always been big, so I think I’ll stay this way - till my doctor balks at my rising blood pressure, I’m sure.”

“Not my fault I’m hot,” Crowley winked.

Aziraphale’s brow did that adorable crinkle again as he stared at Crowley. Realisation cleared his face a few moments later. “Being drunk makes me even worse with figures of speech. I do apol - apple - a -  _ sorry.  _ I’m sorry.”

“You’re fucking adorable, anyone ever tell you that?”

“You, mostly.” The bowl was empty now, Aziraphale having cleared it in minutes, and Crowley took the opportunity to scoot back in and nudge his face into the warm, sweet-smelling hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. Chuckling, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, one hand stroking the wayward curls at his temple, the other lifting his glass to polish off the last of his wine. “Comfortable, dear?”

“Mmmm.” A nuzzle for good effect. “‘S’cosy.”

There had never been a night like this in Crowley’s life. Sure, he’d had partners, and they’d cuddled in various places, but it all seemed far away now, distant enough that the specifics were fleeting and hard to grasp - and nobody he’d been with had been anything as soft, or receptive, or as fucking  _ huggable  _ as Aziraphale. He closed his eyes with a sigh and nestled deeper, wine-sodden drowsiness beginning to settle in. 

Aziraphale was talking away again, recalling the time he began putting rainbow stickers on customers’ to-go cups, innocently at first, then with thinly veiled glee as the gesture started to root out those the shop could destroy with a well-rehearsed argument. More negative reviews flew in, of course, and it only served to bolster their reputation as a queer-friendly place to be, and now they’d never been busier. Sleepy as he was, the concept of such perfect low-grade chaos nonetheless fuelled Crowley’s hunger for mischief, and he resolved to visit the place sooner rather than later.

“Sorry, angel...think ‘m gonna...pass out ‘n a minute…”

“To bed with you, then,” chuckled Aziraphale. They both wobbled to their feet, as carefully as two utterly sloshed middle-aged blokes could ever be, and clung to each other as they headed for the bedroom.

There was no care for propriety in Crowley’s home, drunk or sober; he shucked off his pyjama bottoms and vest, and collapsed into the bed with a grateful moan. “Get in, then.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Aziraphale squeaked from somewhere above him.

“I said, get in.”

“I shouldn’t - ”

“Yeah you should. Come drunk snuggle with me.”

“Well. When you put it like that…” There was the sound of rustling fabric, the quiet clack of fingernails on buttons, then Aziraphale was sliding in next to him, clad in a white grey undershirt and boxers. “Ooh,” he remarked, wriggling, “this is  _ very  _ comfortable.”

“IKEA’s finest, wouldn’t you believe.” Crowley remembered his glasses, and took them off to stick under his pillow. “Wow, you’re blurry.”

“Someone’s had a little too much to drink.”

“Nah, m’vision’s just pish. C’mere.” After some flailing of tipsy limbs and grasping hands, they had themselves in a relatively chaotic and very lovely tangle amongst the blankets; Crowley half on top of Aziraphale, an arm and leg thrown over him for good measure and his nose right at home in the sweet spot behind the angel’s ear. He inhaled deeply and sighed. “Ah, yeah. This is great. Don’t move from here.”

Aziraphale hummed quietly, stroking Crowley’s bare back. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Night, angel.”

“Sleep well, dear.”

He always did, but this was better.  _ So  _ much better.

* * *

Crowley drifted awake the next morning with a dry mouth, an aching bladder, and an incessant buzzing in his ear. 

Dimly he remembered putting his phone on the bedside table before Aziraphale had come over, and he groped for it blindly, squinting at the screen to see Anathema’s name flashing up. He answered with a sleep-muddled, “Hi, doll. What fuckin’ time is it?”

_ “Good morning to you, too. It’s nine o’clock.” _

“What the fuck’re you doin’ callin’ me before eleven at least?” Crowley groaned, flopping onto his back.

_ “Well, Aziraphale isn’t answering his phone, so I had to check you hadn’t murdered him in the night.” _

“You got me. Leaving him out for the crows as we speak.” 

_ “You had a good night, then?” _

“Yeah.” Crowley softened as he turned his head, to look at Aziraphale’s prone form beside him. Without his glasses everything was fuzzy, but he could make out the gentle rise and fall of the man’s back as he seemingly slumbered on, dead to the world. “I, uh. Think his phone’s in the living room. He was showing me that Nazi review last night.”

_ “Oh, I love that one. I wish I’d been there that day to see it in person.” _

“Sounds like you’ve got a great place going on there, Ana.”

_ “It really is. All thanks to Aziraphale, really. He’s the life and soul of us all.” _

“I can see that. He’s...really something.” 

_ “Will you tell him I’m getting the train back to London at two o’clock? He doesn’t have to get the same train, of course, but just so he knows where I’ll be.” _

“Yeah, course I will.”

_ “Thanks, Crowley. It’s been great seeing you again.” _

“You too, doll. Keep in touch, yeah? I’ll try to come down and visit sometime soon.”

_ “That’d be really great.” _

“Safe journey home. Love ya.” 

Once the call ended Crowley shoved the phone under his pillow, retrieved his glasses, and sloped out of bed to shuffle towards the bathroom. He turned on the shower and relieved himself while he waited for the water to heat up, then kicked off his underwear and stepped under the spray.

_ So, last night was...a thing.  _ He cranked the heat a little higher and sighed blissfully as scalding water rained down on his skin like a thousand tender fingertips.  _ Can't remember the last time anybody ever stayed the night.  _ Not that he'd ever wanted anyone to, either; the rare one-night stands he had were usually out the door in a few hours, and certainly nobody had ever stayed without at least one round of emotionless fucking. 

So Aziraphale, he was...definitely a first, and in a way that made Crowley feel like he was glowing. Having him in the flat, in his bed...it felt right, somehow. Like he'd never have to question how it happened or why. It just  _ was. _

He could only hope that Aziraphale wouldn't freak out when he awoke, sober, half-naked, and in another man's bedroom. 

Thankfully, he needn't have worried. Crowley emerged fifteen minutes later, clean shaven, washed and mostly dried, towel around his waist and another round his shoulders, to find Aziraphale sitting on the end of the bed, smiling at him. His heart practically sighed in relief. "Morning, angel." 

"Morning, yourself." Aziraphale stood up to press a smooch to his damp cheek. "Do you mind if I use the shower, too? I have my own towels and toiletries in my luggage."

"Yeah, go ahead.”

"Thank you, darling." Another kiss, on the opposite cheek. "I'll just grab my things - " he slipped into the living room, " - and you'll get a proper kiss once I've cleaned my teeth!" he called over his shoulder.

"Looking forward to it!" Crowley called back, muffled from towelling off his hair. 

Yep, looked like things between them were still absolutely brilliant. 

While Aziraphale showered, Crowley threw on a clean pair of pyjama trousers and an old henley. It was far too early to contemplate putting on proper clothes. He twisted his hair into a sloppy bun atop his head, strands sticking out everywhere, and went to put the kettle on. 

He was on his second cup of tea when Aziraphale eventually reappeared, all fluffy curls and blinding smiles. Sidling up to Crowley at the kitchen counter, he cupped his chin and brought him in for a deep, slow kiss. 

“Mmph.” Crowley nearly dropped his mug in his haste to put it down and wrap his arms around Aziraphale, whining softly as a questing tongue slipped into his mouth. He smelled amazing, clean skin and sweet citrus with a hint of something woody that might have been rosemary, his mouth minty fresh and infinitely inviting; he couldn’t get enough, desperate to have all of this wondrous creature for himself, never let him go. 

Alas, all good things had to come to an end, and eventually Aziraphale drew back, eyes sparkling and lips puffy and wet. “Oh, that was lovely,” he murmured.

“Lovely,” Crowley echoed. “Yeah. Ngk.” Fuck, he’d been snogged into stupidity.

“Oooh, you have Earl Grey!” Attention well and truly diverted, Aziraphale shot off towards the kettle. He set about brewing up like he’d been in the flat forever, and something about that set Crowley’s heart to thudding painfully hard.

Once Aziraphale had made his tea, they sat on the couch, shoulder to thigh and ridiculously cosy. “You took a fair while in the bathroom,” Crowley remarked, sipping his cooling drink. “You got a mad skincare routine or something?”

“Funnily enough, I do,” said Aziraphale wryly. “I have a night routine as well, but I always forget it after a heavy drinking session.”

“Well, drop me those routines, because your skin is fucking amazing and mine is a literal dumpster fire.”

“I’ll text you some of the products I use, but really, dear, you’re being unkind to yourself. You have lovely skin. Especially your freckles.” Aziraphale turned and brushed a mug-warmed finger over Crowley’s cheekbone, just shy of his glasses. “It’s like you have little stars all over your skin.”

“I do like stars,” conceded Crowley. Aziraphale giggled and kissed his temple in reply. “Oh! By the way, Ana called,” Crowley suddenly remembered. “She said to tell you she’s getting the train back to London at two; no pressure for you to do the same, though.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “I should go with her, really. It wouldn’t be fair to leave her on her own, when she was gracious enough to make the trip up north with me.”

“Whatever you wanna do’s fine with me, angel. How ‘bout I take you out to brunch before you go? Last little bit of Manchester and a full stomach to see you off home. Whaddya say?”

Aziraphale’s response was to bestow another sweet kiss upon Crowley’s willing mouth, blue eyes sparkling with joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://tia-lewise.tumblr.com/) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/tia.amane) ! I'm always up for a chat.
> 
>   
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
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	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god these two are so fucking gone on each other
> 
> This chapter's pretty short, but hopefully it'll do!

Ezra and Gil was a lovely little place within Manchester’s Northern Quarter, uniquely cosy with an industrial feel befitting the city rather perfectly. It had high windows and exposed brickwork, the tables and chairs a simple wood and iron affair, and there were small baskets of fresh produce by the counter. 

“Oh, isn’t this  _ darling!”  _ Aziraphale admired everything from the doorway, hands clasped before him, a large smile breaking out over his face. It only grew when Crowley pulled his chair out for him and kissed the top of his head once he was seated. 

Oh, how could he possibly  _ bear  _ to leave for London after experiencing such bliss?

_ Be sensible, Aziraphale. You’ve a business to run and a home to go back to. You can’t stay here and run around after Crowley for the rest of your days. _

But wasn’t that an astounding thought? Aziraphale tucked eagerly into his eggs royale and wondered what it would be like, to be the blushing maiden that gives up everything for love - and it wasn’t love, it couldn’t be, not after a single night, but…

“Crowley,” he asked, “are we dating?”

Crowley squeaked and dropped his spoon with a loud clatter.

_ Oh. That’s...not a good reaction. Is it? _

“I-I’m - I - ngk…” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

“No, it’s okay, it’s…wow.” The shock had faded from Crowley’s face, a nervous smile replacing it as he retrieved his spoon with one hand, and reached for Aziraphale’s own hand with the other. “Surprised me is all.”

“I am well-known for having absolutely no filter,” replied Aziraphale, squeezing Crowley’s hand gently, “but I felt I must ask. Given the previous night...this is all so new to me, Crowley. And of course I’ll be returning to London in a few hours, but I don’t...I don’t want to give this up. Call me a silly old man, but the time I’ve spent with you has been the happiest I’ve felt in years.”

Crowley’s glasses had slid down his nose, revealing a soft and affectionate look in his hazel eyes. “I don’t want to give this up either, angel.”

“What do you think? Could we do it?”

“The distance might be tricky.”

“Well, modern technology is amazing. You can have video calls now, even! I could ask Warlock to teach me how to use the Scoop.”

“D’you mean Skype?”

“...Possibly.”

Chuckling, Crowley released Aziraphale’s hand and stuck his spoon back into his granola. “You’re so damn cute.”

Taking his cue, Aziraphale went back to his eggs and salmon. “Forget the distance for now,” he said, carefully spearing a forkful. “I’m willing to try...if you are.”

Surely it couldn’t be possible for Crowley’s expression to soften further, but soften it did. “Of course, angel,” he murmured. 

“So...are we dating?”

“I think we are, yeah.” They smiled at each other over their table. And that was that. 

After brunch, they went shopping. Aziraphale was by no means a rich man, but he lived comfortably and within his means, and enjoyed using his disposable income to treat himself and others. With Crowley strolling alongside him, occasionally touching his arm and pointing out an interesting store or landmark, Aziraphale felt so happy, so carefree, that the endless noise and bustle of Market Street barely made a dent in his senses.

“I should like to get something for Anathema,” he said, “as thanks for everything she has done for me. What do you think?”

Crowley tilted his head back and forth in thought. It was cold, and he had dressed for the weather in a black duffel coat, black jeans, and scuffed black combat boots, finishing off with a red scarf, ends tucked into the top of his coat. His hair was loose around his shoulders and ruffled from the breeze, and his glasses were the dark ones, which was only somewhat of a shame, but hidden eyes or not, he looked utterly bewitching and marvellous. “There’s a fair few health stores ‘round here. Is Ana still vegan?” Aziraphale confirmed she was. “Awesome. I know some good places to start, then.”

“You know, I still haven’t been told how you two know each other,” Aziraphale mused as they set off down the rain-damp cobbles. Crowley had slipped an arm through his, and it was wonderfully cosy and domestic.

“Ah, it was nothing special.”

“Still, I’d like to know.”

“I was walking past her student digs and she was “pruning” -” Crowley made air quotes with his fingers for emphasis, “- a rose bush in the garden, so I yelled at her for doing it wrong. We’ve been mates ever since.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” he muttered, and Crowley laughed raucously and squeezed his arm.

Together they picked out a pretty box, and began to fill it with their spoils; assorted chocolates and nibbles, cosmetics, ethically sourced wood-and-metal bracelets that Aziraphale couldn’t stop rolling around his fingertips, a few bottles of organic essential oil, an amethyst brooch that Crowley refused to let Aziraphale see the price of, a small bottle of vegan bubbly; Crowley later popped into Lush to grab a bath bomb to top it all off, while Aziraphale waited outside, the strong scents inside the store proving too much for him. Once the fizzy orb, wrapped firmly in paper, went into the box, it was complete, and Crowley placed the whole thing into Aziraphale’s luggage with all the care of someone cradling their firstborn child.

“Right,” he said, straightening up. “Better get you to the station.” 

Aziraphale’s heart was heavy, but he knew it had to be done. He nodded, lifted Crowley’s hand to kiss his knuckles, and gestured for him to lead the way. 

As they walked the heavens opened, grey and looming, over their heads.

* * *

The goodbye was bittersweet.

On the one hand, it had grown terribly chilly, and it would be nice to warm up and relax in the comfort of the train back home; on the other, Crowley’s easy smile and gentle touches were warmth aplenty for his desperate old heart, and giving it up felt like it might torture him. Sighing, he leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder, and felt him wrap an arm around his waist as he scanned the departure board. 

“I feel ridiculous saying it, but...I don’t want to go.”

“Now, now, angel,” Crowley chided, “it’s not all doom and gloom. You got your books, so you can set to work on those when you get back. You’ll have plenty to occupy yourself with once you’re back in the bookshop - and I’ll come visit, I promise.”

“Oh, will you?”

“Course I will. And you’ll come up here again, maybe?”

“Definitely.”

“There you go, then. And we’ll get you using the Scoop like a pro.” Aziraphale smacked his arm lightly in amused rebuke, prompting a chuckle from Crowley and a warm, dry-lipped kiss brushed across his brow. “I’m glad I met you, angel.”

“I’m glad too, darling.”

“You’d best be off. Ana’s waiting on the platform for you.”

Aziraphale nodded lips pressed together tightly. His eyes burned and his chest felt tight; he couldn’t help the tiny sob that escaped as he hugged Crowley hard round his slim waist. Long auburn curls tickled his nose, and he buried himself deeper into Crowley’s warm embrace, inhaling deeply the scent of well-used wool, of rain and neroli and cedarwood, committing it all to memory. Crowley held him gently, slender fingers stroking through Aziraphale’s hair, an almost imperceptible tremble running through him.

_ “Platform six, for the 14:15 Virgin Trains service to London Euston…” _

They broke apart, and Aziraphale saw he wasn’t the only one struggling; Crowley was wiping under his glasses with the sleeve of his coat. “We’re both ridiculous,” Crowley laughed, sounding only slightly watery. 

“Rather,” smiled Aziraphale.

“One more kiss for the road?”

And again they came together, lips crashing into a firm farewell, not a care spent for the people no doubt casting glares their way. It only lasted a second, but it was the deepest, most profound kiss Aziraphale could ever have hoped to experience. Wetness gathered on his cheeks, but the tears were not his. 

“Go, angel, go - ‘fore I kidnap you.”

“I’m going.” He grabbed his luggage, squeezed Crowley’s hand one last time. “Thank you, Crowley. Thank you. You’ll call?”

“Call, text, anything. Whenever you want. Every day. Whenever. Angel -”

“I know, I’m going, I promise - oh, darling…” He couldn’t help one more kiss. “I’m so glad we met.” With two minutes till departure, Aziraphale wrenched himself away, and hurried for the platform. He couldn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Only on the train back home, locked in the tiny bathroom, did he allow himself to cry; the heavens had opened again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://tia-lewise.tumblr.com/) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/tia.amane) ! I'm always up for a chat.
> 
>   
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
> This author sees and appreciates all comments but may not reply immediately due to sheer forgetfulness.  
> Note: If, for any reason, you want to leave a comment, but would prefer not to receive a reply, feel free to sign your comment with four tildes - ~~~~ - and I will appreciate massively but not respond!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go a little more in-depth into Crowley's past, and how he's arrived at where he is now.  
> She/her pronouns are used for Crowley for part of the chapter, moving to he/him as he gets older and comes to understand more about himself. Nonetheless, as always, please take care if you might be sensitive to such things - and let me know if there's anything in need of tagging that I've overlooked by accident.
> 
> Also, big thanks to Yleia, who wondered why Crowley didn't go with Aziraphale back to London since he was still on annual leave. I'm a dumbass who didn't even think about that, but you've helped me move the plot forward by pointing it out, so I'm very grateful that you did!

_1983_

Crowley was going to study science at Cardonald College.

She’d hidden the acceptance letter from her parents, not wanting them to know where she would be going. She’d saved up what she could, slowly building what she hoped would be a safety net for her to get by on her own. She used a portion of it to buy a suitcase, stashing it under her bed so her parents wouldn’t find it. Slowly, she filled it with everything she thought she might need for her trip.

The day she collected her school grades was the last she spent in Paisley. Armed with her luggage, her passport (pinched from Da’s desk drawer), and a heavy yet hopeful heart, she hopped on a bus to Glasgow, and never once looked back.

* * *

_1984_

Striking out on her own had been difficult, to say the least, but never once had she regretted the decision to leave home. Every day saw Crowley studying hard, head down and determined, and when night fell, she surfed from sofa to sofa, whoever and wherever would have her. She didn’t have a place of her own yet, or a job to make ends meet - but that was okay. She was getting by, surviving, and couldn’t ask for much more than that. 

“Why d’you always wear all that baggy shit, Ash?” a classmate asked her once.

 _So you don’t see my stupid tits and girly hips and look at me like a piece of meat,_ Crowley wanted to say, but she settled for, “Oan yer bike, tosspot, cannae ye see I’m busy?” and buried her nose back in her work, but the prick continued to push.

“Yeh’d be tidy if ye grew yer hair out, showed some skin, ye ken? ‘Stead o’ swannin’ round like a lesbo…”

And that was how Tosspot ended up with a bleeding nose on the lab floor. Crowley’s knuckles were bruised for weeks afterwards, and nobody in her classes commented on her appearance again.

Still, it was obvious that she was hiding, and she knew everyone could see it. She’d cut her hair brutally short, and wore oversized jackets, and bought tighter and tighter sports bras, but it made no difference - she’d always be a lass playing at being a lad. 

Leaving home had been easy, but accepting she’d never be taken seriously, that was hard. And she wasn’t going to just lie down and take that as a finality. She’d left Paisley to _make_ something of himself, and she fucking well would if it was the last thing she ever did.

* * *

_1986_

Things began to take a turn for the better after Crowley got her first job. She’d left Cardonald with decent grades, decent enough to get into university, but she wanted some real life experience first, and a break from a near lifetime of nose-grinding education. So off she’d gone on a job hunt. In her stomping ground of North Glasgow, it was slim pickings, the area somewhat deprived and lacking in fortune. The sofa surfing was drying up, too. She needed a place to live, to call her own, and she wasn’t going to find that without an income.

Then one day she saw _her,_ and she fell in love. A 1933 Bentley, sitting in the front yard of a rundown mechanic’s shop, neglected and rust-ridden and beautiful beyond compare. Crowley found herself leaping over the low wall and scampering over to inspect her, awestruck. She’d always loved cars, vintage cars especially so, and had watched _Top Gear_ with her Da religiously since she’d been a wee bairn. Ma had disapproved, saying it wasn’t very ladylike to be interested in such things. 

“Sad, innit?” came a voice from over Crowley’s shoulder. 

She jumped, surprised, and turned around to see a man sitting on the wall, smoking a cigarette and watching Crowley with dark, beady eyes. He was lanky, with scruffy blonde hair and clothes smudged with oil and soot. “Nice car like that,” he continued, blowing out a cloud of smoke, “and someone just up and abandons it like it’s nuffin.”

“Cannae you fix her?” Crowley asked.

“Nah. Too far gone. Talking point, though, eh? Brings people in. You like cars then, girlie?”

Crowley flinched. “Um. Yeah.” She eyed the man’s clothing. “You work here?”

“I own the joint.” The man pushed himself off the wall and flicked away the butt of his cigarette. His accent wasn’t local, a slow drawl she couldn’t place. “Me an’ Lee own it, technically, but it’s my name on the deeds, an’ all that shit.” He tapped the bonnet of the Bentley with a long, dirty fingernail. “Open ‘er up, if you want. Still got a few parts in there worth goggling over, if that’s yer fancy.”

The bonnet’s hinges squealed and protested as Crowley pushed it up and stuck her head inside. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “This is amazing.” There’d be rust flakes in her hair, no doubt, but she didn’t care one bit. She brushed her fingers over the ancient engine, sighing blissfully. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Yer a weird one, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Crowley withdrew reluctantly.

The man tapped his chin a few times, frowning. “Want a job?”

“E-Eh?”

“I _said,_ d’you want a job?” He lit another cigarette. “Lee’s been harping on ‘about gettin’ someone to ‘prentice, an’ you obviously don’t mind getting yer hands dirty, so…”

“D’you mean it? Can I? Work for youse?” Crowley would deny the tears in her eyes to her dying day, even as she grasped the older man’s hands and squeezed tightly. “I’ll be guid, I promise, I’ll - I’ll do my best.”

“Alright, kid, alright.” He shook Crowley off, laughing. “What’s yer name?”

“AJ Crowley. What’s yours?”

“Dave Hester, but everyone calls me Duke. So? You on board?”

“You fucking bet!”

Duke’s grin widened. “Yer gettin’ treated like one of the boys from here on out, AJ.”

* * *

_1988_

Duke and Lee had a house in Hamiltonhill. It was damp, and ugly, the wallpaper peeling and the furniture mismatched and threadbare. It was also home. They’d taken Crowley in after a few months of her working for them, when they found her sleeping bag and blankets hidden at the back of the garage, and realised she was spending her nights there. They wouldn’t hear a word of her protesting that they didn’t need to baby her - into the spare room she went, and she’d been there blissfully ever since.

“What do you _really_ wanna do with your life, AJ?” Lee asked her one night after work. They were on the couch, drinking beers, while Duke had gone to bed early with a headache. The TV was showing some staticky football match, but neither were really paying attention to it.

AJ was a full-fledged mechanic by now, wiry-strong and perpetually streaked with oil, and she loved it, but something in Lee’s words struck a forgotten chord in her. She turned to Lee, frowning. 

“I mean,” Lee carried on, “you’re a good hard worker, but you’re too smart to spend the rest of your days under every old sod’s car.” He was gentler than Duke in most ways, though just as blunt. Crowley had figured out they were a couple fairly early into working at the garage, as much as they tried to hide it, and she didn’t blame them one bit for keeping it schtum. “There’s gotta be something you’d rather be doing, ‘stead of being stuck with us sorry old gits. Eh?”

Crowley shrugged as she took a swig of beer. “I like plants.”

“Plants?”

“Yeah. I did science at college. Really liked all the plant stuff, and I was good at it, too. But who gets a job outta plants? I don’t wanna be some gardener, fuck that.” Her accent was steadily fading, becoming softer with every month spent around Duke and Lee. “So. I dunno. I’m happy here for now - and I’ll be happier once I don’t have to rely on you guys for everything. Don’t get me wrong, I’m beyond grateful, but…”

“I get it,” Lee said. “Everyone’s gotta strike out on their own someday. But AJ, you’re sad. I see it in you all the time, the way you hide. Someone comes in with their car and talks to you like...you know, that patronising voice, and you’re a complete grouch for the rest of the day. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“S-Sorry. Didn’t mean to -”

“AJ, stop it. Stop _hiding.”_

“I’m _not.”_

“You _are,_ and you know you are.” Lee put his beer aside and turned to face Crowley fully. “I didn’t wanna bring it up at first, but you’ve lived with us a few years now, and I think it’s time you heard it. You’re not just some tomboy, are you? Everything about you screams that you don’t wanna be a girl.”

“I…”

“AJ, you need to know that Duke and I, we fucking love you, and we want you to be happy. If living as a boy will make you happy, then you need to go ahead and do that. We’ll be behind you the whole way to support you. I promise.”

Crowley burst into tears, falling against Lee and sobbing her - _his -_ broken heart out. “You’re right, you’re right, I _hate being a girl,”_ he wailed, pathetic and full of snot and Lee didn’t care, just wrapped his arms around him and held him, let him cry out all the years of suppression and misery. “I’m - I’m trapped in here - this stupid body - there’s nothing I can do, Lee, I-I’m just...I’m stuck like this and - and Ma and Da, they wouldn’t accept me, so I ran away, that’s why I’m here...but I’m...I want to be like you guys…”

“You already are,” said Lee gently, wiping Crowley’s wet cheeks. “You’ve always been a bloke to me and Duke.”

“You mean that? You really do?”

Lee chuckled, sounding quite watery himself. “Don’t ask stupid questions, kid. Now drink your beer and let’s watch this shit footie like proper blokes, eh?”

Over the next few days, Crowley decided to stop hiding. If the world couldn’t handle him, then fuck the world. He wasn’t going to be cowed anymore.

* * *

_1995_

“‘Ere ‘e comes now, the flash bastard,” Duke laughed, arm around Lee’s shoulders as Crowley ran up the street towards the house, grinning from ear to ear. In his hand he held a letter, which he waved about excitedly as he reached the front door and proclaimed,

“I’ve been accepted! I’m going to uni!” He fell into their arms, soaking up their cheers and whoops of congratulations.

The last few years had been a whirlwind of activity, to say the least. After turning twenty, Crowley plucked up the courage to seek out a professional that might empathise with his lifetime of internal conflict and confusion. He happened across an endocrinologist, respected in his field, and surprisingly progressive. When Crowley told him everything, and that he had lived as a man since the age of sixteen, the good doctor prescribed a hormone therapy that would gradually shape his body, inside and out, into something he might look at and hate a little less.

Slowly, he began to grow light hair on his chest and jaw. His periods stopped. His voice deepened. He became firmer and more muscled where he had once been soft and padded. His sex drive skyrocketed, enough to see him tumbling into bed with someone who would later become his first (short-lived, but very much enjoyed) boyfriend. Crowley was finally getting into the groove he should have been in from the very start of his life. He was _happy._ Content. Confident. Able to look in the mirror and say, “aye, we’re doin’ alright at the moment.” 

With enough to his name, he’d finally been able to move into a place of his own, an unimpressive rented bedsit that he nonetheless appreciated the fuck out of. He continued working at the garage, and then, after a brief dip into some work experience at a plant nursery, he’d sent an application to UCAS.

He received a single reply; from the University of Glasgow, with an unconditional offer.

“Well done, Anthony,” said Duke, patting him on the back. “Knew ya could do it, ya smartarse.” And there was another change - his name. He had a driver’s license and a posh-looking piece of paper to prove it and everything. “Seems like yesterday you were that scrawny kid fawnin’ over a rusted out Bentley,” Duke continued fondly, “and now look at ya. Fuckin’ proud, I am.” He squeezed Crowley tightly, then drew back, knuckling his head. “My boy! Goin’ off gettin’ a degree! Can scarce believe me eyes.”

“I’m not going _anywhere,”_ laughed Crowley. “I’m still only down the road from youse. Fuck moving in with a loada students.”

“We’ll help out, any way we can,” Lee assured him, and Duke nodded beside him. “Jesus, Anthony, I can’t tell you how proud I am of you! You’ve come so far, you really have.”

Crowley wiped at his eyes behind fogged-up glasses. “I couldn’t have done it without you two.”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

* * *

_2018_

What was the fucking point of annual leave if you kept being called up to come in and cover some lazy fuck who couldn’t be bothered to turn up? Crowley adjusted his microscope for the thousandth time, scowled at it, and glared back down at his sample. “Bee,” he called to the room at large.

“What?” snapped the dour voice of his colleague.

“I cannae see fuck all on these slides.”

“Maybe you got a bum one.”

“They’ve _all_ been bum ones if that’s the case. Every single one of these slides is fucked.” Crowley pushed his chair back from the table and swung it around, removing his glasses to rub his aching eyes. “Are you _sure_ you stained them properly?”

Bee looked remarkably unimpressed, though their eyes remained on the pipette in their hand as they transferred murky green solution onto petri dishes. They were a recent graduate, a tiny slip of a person with a wit drier than Crowley’s attempts at baking. Crowley got on with them well enough, but hadn’t plucked up the courage yet to ask why they always wore a hat resembling a giant fly. “Look, big man, I’m not an idiot,” they muttered. “I know I did it right the first time round.” 

“Right,” Crowley sighed. “You come have a look at this, then.”

“Switch with me.” Bee held out their pipette to Crowley as he came over, pulling on fresh gloves. He took over preparing samples while Bee scrutinised the slides under the microscope.

While he worked, his mind wandered, and not for the first time. It was, admittedly, all he’d done for the past three days. Like a man smitten - and he was - he had his boyfriend on the brain.

 _Boyfriend._ They’d agreed to call each other that during a phone call the previous night. Aziraphale had laughed and said they were far too old for such things, but the soft, breathy tone of his voice when he tried it out for himself said it all for Crowley; Aziraphale was just as gone on it all as he was. He had sent Crowley flowers the day after he left for London, a gorgeous spray of lily, elderflower and alstroemeria - some of Crowley's favourite blooms, as it happened; they were the only plants in the flat presently getting any special treatment, but they were behaving themselves, unlike the rest of his godforsaken greenery. 

“Oi, dipshit.” Crowley withdrew reluctantly from his lurid thoughts; Bee was evidently done checking the slides. All of the petri dishes were prepared now, so together they closed and flipped them, then placed them into the incubator. Once that was done, Bee pulled Crowley to the microscope. “Looks like a Gram-positive," they said. "Scarce, but I can see 'em about right."

“Oh. That’s...good, then.”

“I reckon you might need your eyes testing, old man. The way you’re always rubbing them.”

Crowley smirked. “You’re probably right.”

“Obviously.”

“Shut up. But thanks, anyway.”

“Hmph. Whatever.” Bee stalked back to their seat and set about tidying up the bench, cheeks slightly pink. "Alright if I take my break soon?"

"Sure." It would give Crowley a chance to check his phone and text Aziraphale, if nothing else. 

Bee finished clearing their bench and soon stalked off for some fresh air, leaving Crowley blissfully alone in the lab. Queen had begun playing on the old beat-up radio by his computer, which he turned up the volume on before kicking his feet up and fishing out his phone. There was already a text from Aziraphale, and Crowley smiled as he read through it.

_10:23 - Good morning, darling. I hope you're well. Charlie from the church group came in today and showed me a photo of their new snake - it looks remarkably like your tattoo! Very pretty. Thought I'd let you know._

Crowley appreciated the tidbit of info, his smile growing at the accompanying photo of said snake. It did actually look like his. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he should get a reptile or two for the flat. 

He texted back a few minutes later, once he'd put away his slides, tidied up his work area, and made a cup of coffee. 

_12:14 - Hi, angel. Love the snake, I wanna boop his li'l nose._

Aziraphale replied fairly quickly. Knowing him, he’d snuck away from the shop floor with a cup of tea and deposited himself in a corner with yet another book.

_12:16 - I'll tell Charlie and their adorable noodle to expect virtual nose boops in the near future._

Crowley sighed dramatically. His angel was so damn cute.

The rest of the working day passed without incident. Crowley slipped out for a quick vape once Bee returned from their break, then checked over the developing PCRs and updated his paperwork till it was time for him to finish at three o’clock. “Tell the boss he can get tae fuck, I ain’t coming back again till I have to,” he said cheerily as he handed the reins to Bee, then strolled out of the lab, grateful for the warming sun on his back.

Back at his flat, he took a shower and dressed for comfort in black sweatpants and an old, faded Guns n Roses t-shirt. His hair he left loose to dry naturally. Then there was laundry to put away, pots to be washed, and medications to take. He watered his plants, growling and threatening them, while showering a gentle love and praise over the flowers Aziraphale had sent. 

With all that finished, he retreated to the couch and flicked the telly on, camomile tea in one hand and phone in the other.

 _I miss him already._ Wasn’t that a stupid thing to feel, after knowing someone just a handful of days? But nobody had ever caught Crowley’s eye like Aziraphale had, or set his heart to pounding so frantically he felt dizzy with desire. He’d taken one look at Aziraphale and felt all his rational senses fall to pieces at his feet, leaving just the primal, reptilian part of him to point and shout _that one! I want that one!_ over and over. 

He wanted to see Aziraphale’s smile again - in person. He wanted to feel his plump, anxiety-bitten lips, luxuriate in his soft embrace, breathe in his scent of rosewater and bergamot oil and old, well-loved sheaves of paper. And, well...hadn’t he called himself a man of impulse a few short days ago? Yes, he had. 

A naughty smile spread across Crowley’s freckled face. _Best get packing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://tia-lewise.tumblr.com/) or [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/tia.amane) ! I'm always up for a chat.
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	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter are: use of marijuana, underage drinking, schoolground homophobia, discussion of HIV/Aids, discussion of sexual health including a medical appointment (non-graphic)
> 
> This chapter is a little heavy, but as we are touching on Aziraphale's past, it was completely unavoidable. Hopefully you all manage okay, but as always, please take care if you might be sensitive to any of the content listed above.

_ 1980  _

A motley crew descended upon the park, with all the raucous energy of a supernova. Michaela and Gabriel headed the gang, with Sandy never far behind, and Urielle content to lope along and watch proceedings with her usual quiet amusement. Aaron brought up the rear, pleased as punch and still rather disbelieving of his being included in their circle. 

“Swings are free!” Gabriel pointed out, his easy smile ever-present and bright. Off they all went to commandeer the apparatus. 

Gabriel Archer had been Aaron’s friend since they were toddlers. Where Aaron was short and beginning to grow plump, Gabriel was tall, fit and athletic. He had eyes of a haunting blue-violet, and a jaw you could cut yourself on, and girls fawned all over him at school, something he took in his stride and laughed off as if it happened every day - which it did. He was unfairly handsome. Presently he was doing chin-ups on the top bar of the swings, making it look completely effortless, while the others kicked freely back and forth on the old, worn rubber seats and sprawled on the surrounding grass and torn-up tarmac.

Sandy had smuggled some beers out of his house for them all; Urielle produced a lump of resin, a lighter, and papers from her bag, and began skinning up. Soon the whole gang was pleasantly tipsy and gloriously high. Aaron was quite happily braiding flowers and bits of timothy grass into Michaela’s hair by his second toke, laughing away at the group’s bawdy jokes and far-fetched stories. They’d always been sure to include him in their antics, both silly and serious. It made a healthy change from being pushed around at school and called “poof” and “fairy” by other less-than-friendly classmates. 

“I am glad,” he said, swigging his beer, “that you’re all my friends.”

“Huh?” Urielle reclined on the tarmac, legs crossed at the ankle. "What on earth are you on about?"

“Well, I’m a bit boring, aren’t I?” he mused, with a wry smile. “Bit of an odd duck. But it just hit me now - you're my  _ friends.  _ You really are."

"You’re doing that thing where you talk shit about yourself again, sunshine." Gabriel draped an arm round Aaron's shoulders with another of his wide, white-toothed grins, eyes only slightly hazy from the weed. "Dicks at school need to shut their stupid mouths about you. I keep telling you, tell me who they are and I'll give 'em what for, yeah?"

“Yeah,” agreed Michaela, leaning her head back to see Aaron better from his perch on the swing. She took a toke of the joint and passed it to him. "If anything, you're more quirky and clever than boring. And you know what I think? That we should be nice to the clever ones, because when we grow up, we'll be the ones working for them."

"Well, when you put it like that…" laughed Aaron.

"You're loved, Ari," Michaela smiled. "I hope you do know that."

“Speak for yourselves,” grinned Sandy. Aaron blew smoke in his face and gave him the finger, to much laughter from the group.

"That's better." Gabriel squeezed Aaron's forearm gently before retreating to get another beer. Aaron had to resist the urge to reach out for him, to keep him close.

As the night wound down, the gang started to disperse. Soon it was just Aaron and Gabriel left, lying on their backs in the grass, finishing their beers and watching the fluttering of bats against the stars.

“Gabe...I’ve been thinking.”

“Never a good idea.”

“Shut up a minute. I want to be called by my middle name from now on. Do you think...is that alright?”

Gabriel rolled onto his side and propped his head up. “Why’re you asking me?”

“I’m asking you because you’re my best friend, and your opinion matters to me.”

“Well, my opinion is you can do what you want, but don’t you have a funny middle name? Azira-something?”

“Aziraphale. And I’m sure people would get used to it. Plenty of people go by their middle names, after all. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

“Hey, no objection from me,” shrugged Gabriel. “You gotta do what you gotta do.” He glanced around a moment, then cleared his throat. “Can I, uh. Can I tell you something?”

“Of course you can.” 

“You have to swear not to tell anybody. And I mean  _ anybody.”  _

Aaron -  _ Aziraphale -  _ frowned to hear the uncharacteristic anxiety in his friend’s voice. He wasn’t good at reading people, but he knew Gabriel well enough to recognise when he wasn’t his usual self. He assured Gabriel that his lips were sealed, and urged him to continue. 

Gabriel was quiet for a long while, staring up at the sky as if he suddenly found the bats above their heads intensely interesting. “I’m telling you,” he said, almost in a whisper, “because you’ve always been a bit queer, sunshine, and I know you won’t judge me for it -” 

Well, he was right about that; Aziraphale had come to the conclusion that he was gay a few years ago, though he’d never discussed it with anybody, and who in their right mind ever would? He quite enjoyed having his kneecaps intact, thank you very much.    
“-and it’s about...well, it’s...you know how you see a pretty girl and you think, “she’s nice, I wouldn’t mind a go of her?”” 

Aziraphale had not ever had such thoughts about girls, but he hummed anyway.

“So that happens, which is great, y’know, normal part of growing up and everything, but I, er...well, it’s been happening around...around...boys, as well. And it’s...really confusing me and I don’t know what to do.”

Aziraphale turned to face Gabriel. He had quite the blush on his cheeks and he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eye. “You’ve been thinking that boys are nice, too?” he said.

“Yeah. What the fuck does that even mean?”

“That you think boys are nice, obviously.”

“Stop it,” Gabriel laughed. “Smart arse.”

“I’m just saying it how it is. Is it just the feeling in general? Have you ever...kissed a boy?”

“Er. No. Never actually kissed... _ anyone.”  _

Now  _ that  _ came as a surprise. Stupidly pretty Gabe surely had to have kissed all the girls at school. 

“Why? D’you think it’d help me figure it all out?”

“It might do.” Aziraphale’s mouth felt dry as he watched the ever-changing expressions on Gabriel’s face, shifting from perplexion to deep thought to vague curiosity. “I suppose I wouldn’t really know, though,” he added. “I’ve never kissed anyone, either.”

Gabriel considered that, lips pursed. Then he sat up, snapping his fingers. “Let’s get to it, then.”

“P-Pardon?”

“Might as well get it over with, right? Just - just run with me on this one, Ari. You’re my best friend and I trust you, and...and it’d make me feel better knowing it was you.” 

It was suddenly rather hot, despite the evening air and the coolness of the grass below them. Aziraphale could only nod, swallowing hard, trying to hide the trembling of his hands as Gabriel swooped down, pressing their lips together gently. 

Time didn’t stop, and birds didn’t burst into song, but Aziraphale’s heart was thrashing hard enough in his chest to make up for any silly poetics. It was a lovely sensation, Gabriel’s lips cool and careful on his own, and inwardly he longed for more, for it to never stop.

Gabriel pulled back after a fleeting second. “That was...uh…” He rubbed the back of his head, looking sheepish. “Thanks, Ari.”

“Did it...did it help?” Aziraphale barely trusted his voice not to crack.

“Not sure. Once more, for science purposes?”

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “For science purposes,” he agreed.

He hadn’t quite imagined his first experience with anybody - much less his best friend - to be a soft, leisurely snog in the grass, bathed in the light of the moon with bats swooping overhead, but there it was, and he couldn’t complain. Perhaps poetics had their place after all, because the moment was, at its heart, terribly bloody romantic.

* * *

_ 1984 _

“I’ve decided to retire,” Ambrose said, out of the blue, "this coming September."

Aziraphale had seen it coming for a while now. His father was barely shy of fifty-eight, but the last few years had seen arthritis beginning to flare in his hands and shoulders, making it difficult for him to lift and carry the heavy boxes and tomes he could swing around easily in his youth. Decades of smoking had left him with a persistent cough and more chest infections than Aziraphale had ever wanted to see his father go through. It was probably time for him to slow down. 

He set down the book he had been reading, and looked over to Ambrose sitting by the fireplace, cup of coffee in hand and eyes trained on the comedy playing on the television. “I don’t blame you, dad,” he said, quietly. “You need a break, for once in your life.”

Ambrose grinned. His stooped shoulders and stiff fingers might have betrayed his age, but his face was relatively unlined and still bore the boyish humour of his younger years. Lucky bugger. Aziraphale had the beginnings of crow’s feet already. “Living in London runs you ragged, that’s for sure. I have to say, I’m looking forward to winding down; somewhere in the country, maybe. A bit of sea air and a nice view."

“You’re too young to claim a pension, though,” pointed out Aziraphale. “Are you set in the way of finances? Will you have to sell the bookshop?”

“Don’t you go worrying about me and money, I’ll be fine! I don’t expect you to take on the bookshop, not while you’re still at university. I can lease it out, or -”

Aziraphale cut him off swiftly. “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t be silly, Ari. You’ve enough on your plate as it is.”

“The bookshop has been in the family for generations,” Aziraphale said curtly, “and it should stay that way. Please, leave it with me, dad. If you retire in September, then I will only have a year or so left of university, but I’ll ask to study part-time if I have to, or hire extra staff -"

“You’ve your whole life ahead of you, Aaron.” Ambrose looked torn. “You’re so young. It would be too much to ask of you."

"Dad…" Affection didn't always come easy to Aziraphale, even with his father whom he loved very much. Still, the occasion called for a bit of closeness, he thought, as he slid from his seat and went to sit next to Ambrose on the sofa, a careful hand touching his arm. "All my life I've known I would inherit the bookshop from you, so timing doesn't matter. I've always been ready. So please don't worry."

Ambrose sipped his coffee, smiling wanly. "I suppose it'll help your future marriage prospects, if you can say you've owned your own business since you were twenty.”

“Oh, not this again.”

“What? I’m still waiting on those grandkids!”

Aziraphale glanced at the television, where the comedy had shifted to a grim-looking newsreader. 

_ "Rising numbers of homosexual males in the UK being diagnosed…” _

A sudden chill shivered, despairing and deep, in Aziraphale’s bones. He clasped his hands over his knee, squeezing tightly, willing them to stop shaking.

_ It’s getting worse. Oh, Lord, will we ever be safe? _

* * *

_ 1991  _

_ "Freddie Mercury, whose dramatic vocals helped make Queen one of the top pop groups, last night died of pneumonia brought on by Aids, his publicist said…" _

"So sad," murmured Aziraphale, laying down his newspaper. Outside it was pouring with that cold November rain oft sung about across the pond. 

"Brilliant musician," Gabriel sighed, leaning heavily against the counter. His hair, soaked earlier from the weather, was quickly drying in the heat of the bookshop and had begun to grow amusingly frizzy. "So talented…”

"I can't say I ever heard much of his music," Aziraphale admitted, "but he was no doubt a great man." 

“I met him once, you know? In a club, few years back. Real nice guy. Deserved the world, he did. Didn't deserve to go the way he did." Gabriel rubbed a hand over his face and looked out of the window, mouth twisting. “Look like hell out there, huh?”

“It certainly isn’t pleasant.” Aziraphale didn't much feel like keeping the shop open, not when the rain had driven everyone indoors anyway, so he closed up, drew down the shutters, and shooed Gabriel into the cramped and cluttered backroom to relax while he counted up the till and made a few notes in the dog-eared book sitting under the counter. He'd deal with everything else later. 

"So, how are you?" he said, a few minutes later as he strolled into the backroom, two glasses of whiskey in hand. He passed one to Gabriel and made himself comfortable in the old wingback chair his father used to occupy on many a night. "It's been a few years since you dropped by. Busy putting away all those pesky criminals?"

"Honestly, Aziraphale," chuckled Gabriel. “I don’t live in the courtrooms.” He swirled the honey-coloured liquid in his glass, looking thoughtful. "I'm good, though. Real good. Happy as a clam, so says my old dad."

How was it possible to determine the emotional positivity of a clam, Aziraphale wondered. "And your parents? Are they well?"

"Mum had a knee replacement last year, but apart from that they're both great. What about you? Your dad?"

"Oh, he's very much enjoying his retirement," said Aziraphale. "It seems to suit him well, and he calls every few days to check in." He looked purposefully at Gabriel's left hand, where a gold band sat on his ring finger. "I see you finally proposed to Frances."

"Yeah. We married earlier this year. Woulda invited you, but we kinda eloped to LA, so…" They both smirked at each other. The idea of Aziraphale going anywhere near such a place was ludicrous, and weddings were arse-numbingly boring, even when it was that of your closest friend - not to mention the price of plane tickets these days. "Hoping for kids soon," continued Gabriel, "but Frances has such a big family, we're usually overrun with nieces and nephews, so even if we had no kids of our own, we'd have that lot to look after instead!"

"I'm happy for you," Aziraphale said, and he meant it. 

"What about you, though, Aziraphale? Are you seeing anyone?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "No. What with the bookshop, and finishing off my Master's, I've little enough time for myself, let alone a partner. I don't mind, though. You know I've always liked my own company."

"So you've not been affected by…? Y'know, Freddie and all…"

"Aids? No, my dear, not personally, but that's not to say I haven't seen how it continues to devastate our community." Aziraphale sighed and knocked back his whiskey. "It is frightening, though, isn't it? They say it mostly affects gay men, but the media proves itself time and time again to be a master of scaremongering. Truly, nobody is safe. We must be so careful in our intimate moments, don't you agree?"

"I do," said Gabriel, raising his glass. "Scares the frigging life outta me." 

"I do what I can," Aziraphale murmured, "for those who need it. Young men who came out to their families in their time of need, yet shunned and left to die alone in a cold hospital bed...when I hear of such things, I go to see them. Spend time with them, and let them know they aren’t ever truly alone.” 

“Aziraphale…”

“You must think me silly...and when it feels like the whole world has abandoned you, I do wonder if my play at altruism is a mere drop in the ocean of their suffering, but even so..."

Gabriel smiled sadly. "You're a goddamn angel, you know that, Aziraphale?"

"I'm no such thing. I just...couldn't ever sit by and do nothing."

"Well, whatever you are, you're amazing."

"...Thank you."

A gentle silence stretched between them, poignant and prayerful. The heaviness in Aziraphale’s heart began to ease, Gabriel seemingly willing to help carry his burdens. As always, his friend had not judged him, had lent his ear and just been himself. It was everything he needed. The prospect of a romantic spark between them had long since died, but their friendship was one of more value to Aziraphale than the most priceless of gold and jewels, and he would not trade it for anything. 

"Will you come have dinner with us on Sunday?” Gabriel eventually said. Aziraphale lifted his head and smiled, grateful for the change in topic. “You wouldn't believe the size of the lamb leg Frances bought from the butcher!”

"Well, now, you know I can't turn down a good lamb roast. Of course I'll come. Thank you, Gabriel."

* * *

_ 2018 _

Aziraphale was besotted. He had his head well and truly in the clouds.

He had sent Crowley flowers, wondered about matching tattoos, browsed on his phone for engagement rings, and booked an appointment for sexual health screening. Then as he’d been pulling an apple pie out of his oven, daydreaming about long auburn hair and crooked-toothed grins, he’d burned his forearm on the oven rack and dropped the dish, glass shattering into a thousand thousand pieces across the kitchen. 

He’d looked at the disaster with only mild horror, before muttering,

“Oh, fuck. I’ve gone Full Boyle.”

Sweeping up the mess, he had vowed to try and remember where on earth he had heard such a silly phrase, and how it had gotten into his head.

Full Boyles aside, he still had an appointment to keep, and Aziraphale East was nothing if not respectful of punctuality. Presently he slid into the proffered chair in the nurse's office and wriggled into a comfortable position, wishing for the nervous tension thrumming under his skin to bloody well bugger off. 

"Hello, Martha. Good to see you again."

"Same to you," replied Martha, the nurse. "How have you been since going on the ramipril?"

"No side effects that I've noticed, so it must be doing me some good overall."

"Fab - so it says on the system that you’ve come in for sexual health screening?” Aziraphale nodded at that. "No problem, we can do that for you. Just need to run through a few questions about your sexual history, if that's alright." Another nod, then Martha clicked her computer mouse at something onscreen. "Okay...to start off...do you know how many sexual partners you've had?"

"I would say between twelve and fourteen, but it's been a very long time since I've had sex - at least thirty years."

Martha tapped briefly on her keyboard. "Have your sexual partners been male, female, or...?" She looked at Aziraphale, who regarded her with raised eyebrows and an amused smirk, and she laughed. "Yeah, alright." Another few quick taps. "I don't think we need to answer the rest of these, since you've not had sex for a while…"

"A  _ while,"  _ scoffed Aziraphale, good-naturedly.

"...So we'll go ahead with the penile swab and the prostate exam, shall we?" Aziraphale blanched. "I'm joking, sweet," Martha laughed. "All I need is a urine sample and some blood."

"You're lucky I like you," Aziraphale grinned, accepting the small clear container Martha passed him. 

"That's what you get for sassing me, young man - now into the loo with you." 

Ten minutes later Aziraphale left the surgery with a plaster in the tender crook of his elbow (which would bruise like a dropped apple, he always did), and a reminder to check his phone for a text of his results over the next few days. He set off back to the shop; it was poetry club night, which he always looked forward to.

_ I should tell Crowley, shouldn't I?  _ he wondered as he walked through the early evening pedestrian rush. Crowley didn't seem the type to be scared off by a relationship moving forward quickly - they'd already slept half-naked in the same bed, for heaven's sake - but just as he possessed no discernable filter in his speech, Aziraphale also had a tendency to  _ want,  _ and want a lot, in very short time. He was a greedy, grabby-handed man by nature; he loved anything he could hoard close and keep to himself, old books and regency snuff boxes and expensive fountain pens, and now his lovely new boyfriend, too.  _ That,  _ more than anything, had him worried. 

_ Pull yourself together, man. There's nothing wrong with looking after your health, sexual or no. You can talk to him about it when you next see him.  _ He'd tentatively made plans to visit Manchester again in a few weeks - nothing set in stone, but he wanted to discuss it with Crowley in the coming days. He saw no reason why Crowley would object, but one never wanted to assume overmuch.  _ But you  _ are  _ going at this whole thing full speed, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to slow down a touch. It’s your first relationship. Don’t fling yourself over the edge before you’ve stopped to look for danger. _

He stepped into  _ Celestia,  _ glad to be back within his sanctuary. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and smiled, letting his happy senses feed back to his brain: the scent of strong coffees and aromatic teas; the clinking of delicate china cups and saucers; the soft turning of pages; the gentle warmth in the air, the low chatter, the company, the building and its wonderful, ancient, earthly spirit. He was home.

"Welcome back, love." Tracy swept over in a swirl of clashing fabrics and floral perfume. Aziraphale smiled at her as she pecked his cheek in greeting. "Everything go well at the doctor's?"

"Yes, thank you. Did I miss anything here?"

"Not unless you want to count Newt dropping another mug."

"I'd be worried if he went a day without, to be frank."

"Quite right." Tracy laughed, patted his cheek, and floated back towards the back of the shop, humming to herself.

There was still some time before poetry club, so Aziraphale made himself a cup of tea and went to sit down by the window, nodding to the regular patrons as he got comfortable. He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of his pocket, smoothed it out on the table, and slipped on his reading glasses. 

_ "There is comfort and warmth,”  _ he murmured,  _ “There is grounding, one says, In cotton and wood, in water and bread…"  _ His own contribution to the session was paltry at best, poetry not being his strong point, but he loved being able to sit and discuss the finer meanings, the unconscious emotion, within the written words of their night. The last few days had inspired him to jot down a few lines, though continuing the whole thing eluded him. He sipped at his tea, fingers of his free hand fluttering idly against the tabletop, and wondered how he might continue. Nearby, the bell above the door rang softly, but he barely registered it, eyeing the words on the paper as though they might speak their hearts to him.

“Where do we go from here…?” 

“Where, indeed?” said a voice from beside him; a voice of merriment and mirth and -

All the tension, all the worry, fled from Aziraphale as surely as the air left his lungs when he breathed. A slow, beatific smile spread across his face as Crowley -  _ Crowley!  _ He was  _ here,  _ in London! - dropped into the chair in front of him. 

“Hey, angel. Long time no see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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